When Pasta Is To Blame
by FroggyFran
Summary: Maybe Romano and Feliciano are even more alike than we thought. GermanyxN.Italy SpainxS.Italy MPREG full lemon in later chapters fourshot -First Hetalia, please go easy-
1. Trimestre Uno

Hi! This will be my first completed Hetalia fic ever, so please don't destroy me. Also, I know a bunch of people who hate mpreg, so I'm sorry if I just made you RAEG. This was a prompt on the Hetalia LJ Kink Meme, but I wanted to try it out myself haha.

I'm sorry if you dont like it. Especially to all my Katekyo Hitman Reborn! watchers haha. I'm double sorry. ;A;

---

Italy was never one to be sick for long.

Sure, he'd constantly fake illness to get out of early morning training, and yes, even to escape Germany's wursts (Though Germany never really forced the Italian to do much of anything, much less eat his beer-basted brats).

But Germany believed he had never actually seen Italy sick. Ever.

So suddenly when, in the middle of heated copulation of the two nations, the young Italian threw aside his lover in favor of the porcelain basin in the washroom, Germany became worried. Just a little, at least.

"Did you overeat again?" the German asked, partially annoyed at the lack of service his erection was obtaining. He had been so close!

The only thing that answered him was the heavy heaving of a sick man and the pitiful whine of a sad little boy. He sighed and willed his arousal away, as if the sound of throwing up didn't already do that.

"Remind me to regulate your diet," he told his little lover, who was still hugging the toilet like a lifeline. Germany had the decency to wait until he was relieved, and to soon after comfort his sore throat and aching stomach with all the love a hearty German general could muster. It was the best he could do, after all.

"Ve~," Italy whispered, his head dipped to the bowl still, just in case, "Germannyyyy"

Like a pathetic cry for help, Germany noted, very much like the Italian. At least it meant he was still relatively fine.

"Just don't overdo it on the pasta, and you won't have to go through this again," he promised. The little Italian gathered a tiny smile to his yet-to-be-distraught face.

"Okay~!"

---

"Lovino!"

Crashes could be heard through the stony kitchen, iron pots clashing with their brothers hanging from hooks, the telltale pierce of crisp air from the sound of shattered china.

"Por favor, mi querido! Stop!"

The rash Italian boy merely picked up another fine porcelain plate, and with a sharp-as-glass glare, smashed it on the sanded pueblo tile. The sound echoed off mud-colored walls, and left fine white dust in the midst of cracked and broken pieces.

"...Chiquiti-"

"Don't you dare!" the little brunette pointed an audacious finger at his father figure, his eyes ablaze in fury. "Don't you dare call me that!"

Spain was at a loss: of both words, and priceless dinnerware.

"...Si," he finally murmured in surrender as his lover took hold of another plate. "What is the matter, Lovino? Please tell me."

When the angry boy didn't answer right away, Spain assumed it wasn't anything of importance. Again. But what reason did he have to break his dishes?

That's when he used his plate-free hand to lift up his shirt, showing his mentor his light tan courtesy of the Spanish sun, and taut abs that were perfect and smooth.

Spain smiled.

"Lovino," he purred, "That belongs in the recámara, si?"

And then the plate in Romano's other hand went crashing to the floor, sounding like a morose scream in the ears of the heartbroken Spaniard.

"L-Lovino, por favor! Please stop breaking my dishes! They were expensive!"

"Don't you see?" The furious Italian cried, not dropping his shirt just yet, "Don't you fucking see?"

"Miho, all I see is mi bonito Italia," he answered exhaustedly as he stared down at his destroyed dishes. How sad.

"This!"

The Italian strode over to the Spaniard in a heartbeat, forcing said man to look closer.

A bump.

The beginning of a belly, Spain mused. If Italy hadn't grabbed his hand and pressed it to his relatively flat stomach, he wouldn't have even noticed at all. He hadn't been able to see it anyway.

"Sweet Lovino," he sighed, "What are you trying to say?"

"You stupid bastard! I'm getting fat!"

Spain said nothing to that for a moment. Lovino couldn't possibly be worrying about a few pounds. Lovino couldn't possibly have broken his dishes over a tiny unobservable lump.

"Mi Lovino," he whispered, his hands tight against his flat stomach, standing tall to loom over the smaller man, "Please just calm down."

"How the fuck can I calm down, stupid Spain? I exercise and eat healthy and am fucking perfect! How could this have happened?"

Spain felt tired all of a sudden. Maybe it was too early in the morning for- wait no; it was 3 in the afternoon. He'd call it a day, for the love of Italia.

"Lovino, what you need is a nap."

Romano, as flustered and fuming as he was, could not resist the soft caressing from soft dark hands and the thought of a warm afternoon siesta with his dumb ass Spain.

---

"You lied to me."

Germany blinked awake slowly, his brain taking a minute to reboot. His eyes focused on the naked Italian straddling him, his eyes and mouth sad, like a child who dropped his ice cream.

"W...What?" Germany grumbled, rubbing his cheek roughly and sitting up a bit. Not that he didn't appreciate the feeling of the lithe brunette encasing his hips.

"You lied to me," he repeated, his mouth twitching in a pout. "I only ate pasta for breakfast and lunch, and I still got sick!"

Germany had to think of a time when Italy hadn't had pasta 5 times a day. There was no such time. Germany also had to relish in the fact that Italy had listened to what he said for the first time in the history of ever.

"...There must be something else wrong with you."

At that, the little brunette cried out in terror, and Germany stared up into dark tearful eyes.

"Veeeeee! G-Germanyyyyy! What if I've got something real bad? What if I'm going to die? What if I can never eat pasta again?"

The Italian brought his cupped hands to his pale white face and cried into them, big fat tears rolling off his cheek into the human goblet below his chin. He hiccupped and sobbed and whined, all the while seated erotically above his masculine lover.

Germany was always at a loss, it seemed.

Ignoring the stirring in his groin, forcing thoughts of dead puppies and naked old women into his head, he sat up all the way, knocking Italy back over his thighs. The Italian only continued to bawl.

"Germannnyyyyyyyyy!"

The German had quickly grown accustomed to the boy's crying over the years. He doubted he had ever taken it seriously. But there was a time and place for everything, he assumed. And that time was then, and that place was there, too early in the dark morning of his apartment's bedroom. Italy cried.

"I-Italy," he stammered, when the boy would not cease. The heartbroken noises and the never-ending salty tears were pinching at his strong German heart. "Calm down, Italy. I'm sure it will get better."

"But you liiiiiiiied!"

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes and fall back into his comforting bed to sleep, he brushed his hand over the boys spread thighs, resting soothingly at his knees. The bathroom light Italy had left on in his hurry for salvation bled into the dark that had once surrounded the room, and Germany could see the glow of Italy's pale naked skin, and the suddenly noticeable projection on his stomach.

Maybe he really did just eat a lot, he thought. What else could explain the belly? Maybe he's just gotten fat and it's stressing him out. He can't really handle stress well anyway. I should train him more.

The German leaned over and kissed the inside of one of those pretty little thighs, causing Italy to hitch in his broken incoherent sobbing and look up from his veil of fingers. Germany never really could take Italy seriously for long, especially with that teary-eyed puppy face.

"Calm down," he whispered against pale shaking skin, "It's probably just a stomachache. Don't worry about it."

"W...Will Germany...Will Germany take care of m-m-me?" the small man cried out, shifting his legs even closer to the other's mouth, as if asking for more attention. Germany gladly obliged, albeit sleepily. The Italian drained him like a vampire.

"Of course," he kissed out against taut skin, leaning back onto the pillows and dragging the spread legs with him. All there was after that was the delightedly tickled squeal from a relieved Italian and the gruff hum of chuckling from a content German.

---

Days were only days, going through the same routines: Romano yells at Spain, Spain tries to figure out what's wrong, Romano would then yell at Spain again, Romano gets tired from being so angry and goes to sleep early. The end. Then the next day...

Spain could have sworn he'd seen a gray strand amidst his perfect brown hair after a few days. He'd rather not think about that.

Not that Romano being angry with him was any different from all the other times. But all of it happening so often, more often than usual, and so abruptly and without reason, Spain was sure he'd aged faster in those few weeks than he had in his 600+ years of life. He felt tired and annoyed all the time, like an old man yelling at kids to get off his lawn.

He'd given up on wondering why his Lovino was so angry with him these days. He'd ask him after a furious bout of cursing his very existence, but Romano would simply zip his mouth shut with a flustered red face and stomp off to his bedroom, which he promptly locked right behind him every time.

"Antonio." His name was whimpered from the hallway.

Spain knew he was in deep shit when his name escaped the livid lips of his Lovino. He'd only ever said it once, and he had been so furious, he refused to speak to Spain for weeks.

Spain nearly toppled out of his chair at the sound, rushing to his ward's side faster than he thought he ever could with his tired old legs. The boy's room was dark as night, even in the late morning sun that invaded his handmade stained glass windows. Romano had the blinds shut tight. Spain could barely make out the outline of a person, hiding in the tomato red sheets of his bed.

"W-What is it, mi querido?" he asked quietly, afraid of the furious protest he was sure he'd be given. When he wasn't given an answer or a sharp snarl, he took only one step into the deathly room.

"Lovino," he whispered into the blackness. The pile of sheets wiggled, and Spain lost half the will to be worried. "Lovino, what's the matter?"

Even in the dark, Spain could see the big mud brown eyes staring up at him from beneath a cottony cave, curious like a kitten, bright as headlights.

"...My back hurts," the pile of linens whimpered in defeat, squirming about sadly.

Who was Spain to leave his sweet little babe in distress?

Spain tested the waters by pressing a hand to the center of the lump and taking hold of the sheets. He pulled them back slowly, as to not frighten his ward, to reveal a lanky trembling body covered in only shorts and an unbuttoned dress shirt. Spain sighed quietly.

"...Turn around, cariño."

Romano did, slowly, taking care to keep his stomach out of view, and not to put too much pressure on it. His position on his belly was awkward, and made him hiss in pain.

"Does your stomach hurt too, precioso?" Spain asked, kneeling on the plush bed and leaning over the Italian. He pressed a soothing hand to his spine, right over the small of his back, and rubbed in circles. Romano voiced his appreciation, but didn't answer the Spaniard's question. He melted like chocolate to the passionate man's touch.

But the mood was broken rather quickly at the feel of the other hand on his prominent belly, only trying to smooth away the pain. Romano cried out as if he'd been bitten and reeled back, kicking Spain in the thigh. Spain jumped away from the alarmed boy, standing to his feet and looming over the curled up Italian unintentionally.

His stomach was so round.

"Lovi-"

"Shut up, stupid Spain!" the boy screeched, and Spain knew his calm had been killed, "Don't laugh! I-I haven't eaten anything in days, but I just keep getting bigger! Don't fucking laugh!"

Spain either hadn't taken good long looks at Romano in a while, or Romano had been clever in hiding with his oversized shirts. His worry flew back to him tenfold. What if it was a tumor?

"...Lovino, you're sick. I'm taking you to see a doc-"

"No!" was the near immediate response, muffled by the sudden envelopment of sheets again. "Y-You can't get me to leave looking like this! Shit! I'm never leaving my room ever again!"

Spain felt the fatigue return to him like a rainy cloud over his head. But with nothing else to comfort the stubborn boy, he dashed to the phone, dialing the numbers he knew by heart and waiting for the dial tone to click off.

"Germany speaking."

"Hola, mi amigo!" he greeted as cheerily as he could, "Could you give the phone to mi querido? It's an emergencia, por favor."

Germany hummed in agreement, and with a scuffling noise, had Italy on the receiver.

"Veee~! Spain ni-chan! How are you?"

Terrible. "Bueno, little one, bueno! But sweet Lovino is not so bueno!"

Spain could imagine the cute little tilt the other's head would have made."...Ni-chan?"

"He's very sick, but he won't see the doctor!"

Another short pause, but Spain could hear the grumbling of an annoyed German in the background, probably at giving Italy the responsibility of handling a telephone.

"...Ni-chan's sick? W-What's wrong with him, Spain ni-chan?"

Spain wished he knew, or could make it less of a burden for the other Italian boy he loved.

"Well, he's been in a lot of pain these past weeks, and isn't eating or sleeping properly. He's gained some weight and-"

"Veeee~?" the Italian on the other end interrupted, and Spain could practically see the cuteness sparkling off the child. "Has his belly gotten bigger~?"

Spain quirked an eyebrow and looked to his kitchen down the hall in confusion. "...Yes, it has. How did you know, Feliciano?"

"Because! I have that sick too!"

Another scuffle was heard over the phone and a more irate Germany correcting his lover, ending in a happy laughing Italy. The sound of his laughter made Spain's heart beat faster. He wished his Lovino laughed for him like that.

"Ah~! Germany says I shouldn't call it a sickness. It's called 'pregnancy' or something? Whatever that is, I'm still sick and Germany should be nice to me~! ...Spain ni-chan, you still there? Spain ni-chan?"

Spain could feel several hundred more hairs on his head turn gray.

---

Germany had practically bought out the bookstore's entire stock of pregnancy guides.

And he'd stay up hours on end, even when his lover would cry out for him to go to sleep, memorizing and sucking in any piece of information he could. Italy would try to read with Germany, but he had the attention span of a goldfish, so every time would result in whining boredom and a constant distraction.

But Germany was focused.

With his non-existent experience with children and the not so reliable tips from Prussia, he promised himself he'd do this right. He'd know what to do when parenthood was thrust in his face.

"West, I never had to deal with a baby. You were a toddler," his brother admitted, cocky grin always in place. "And really, that baby is going to have the most awesome uncle in the whole universe, so what's there to worry about?"

If that wasn't something to worry about, he didn't know what was.

It took him days to finish every book he had, and when that did not satisfy him, he took to the Internet as well. He was cooped up in his office for weeks, with a total of 10 hours of sleep and 18 meals. He was run ragged and dry.

"Why don't you spend time with me, Germany?" Italy finally asked him, walking into his dim lonely office with his hands resting over his growing stomach. Germany was surrounded with papers and documents, and his reading glasses fell askew on his nose.

"...Italy, I'm busy," he answered, not looking up from his research.

"Veeee~," the Italian whined. And there was something there, in that stupid annoying sound, that made Germany's heart skip a beat. So he paid his bride some attention.

Tears fell from big brown eyes to stain the blue uniform stretched over his bulging belly. He made an effort to sniff them away, running a course coat sleeve across his face to rid it of liquid.

Germany had to stop what he was doing for the first time in weeks, standing from his worn-down leather chair and letting the stacks of paper topple all around him to the floor.

"I-Italy, what..." he offered quietly, taking small subdued steps toward him. Italy sobbed into his arm.

"G-G-Germany doesn't w-w-want to be with me anym-more! All he d-does is r-read and ig-g-gnore meeee!"

Germany did not have the strength to do much at this point in time except surrender. He took Italy's soft hand into his large calloused one and dropped to his knee. For God's sake, he had barely stood at all in days! He sighed against the pale white skin cupped in his grasp, waiting for the Italian to stop bawling and pay attention to his tired acceptance.

"...I'm trying...Very hard to understand everything there is to know about what's happening to you, Italy." His voice was gruff and quiet against the boy's hand. "All the books say something different, and I don't know which way is right and wrong...And I want to make sure...Make sure that I'll do this right...That I'll be the perfect father...I'm sorry, Italy."

Italy's sniveling had dulled to soft hiccups, snot oozing onto his sleeve as he rubbed it across his face one last time.

"...B-But," Italy mumbled, "G-Germany is good at everything. Even making p-pasta! Though I'm way better! Germany can do all the stuff I can't, like write letters and do push-ups and hold liquor and do taxes and remember birthdays and..."

Germany stared up at his little lover and waited for him to stop listing all his faults, but it never came. So he stood back onto his wobbly legs and watched Italy continue vehemently.

"...And sign signatures and play American football and speak strongly and eat sour things and count to really high numbers and-"

"Italy."

"...And read big words and carve pumpkins and ride horses and see far away and tie knots and organize-mppfh!"

Italy gave in as easily as if he'd had a big white flag in each hand, with Germany kissing away his list and crushing their bodies together (Yet remaining careful of the roundness between them), his big strong hands curling around his tiny waist and pressing to his somewhat sore back, knowing just where to touch to make his lover squeal.

So the German put his research on hiatus in favor of a long-lost romp with his plump little Italian.

And even weeks later, the office was graced with a thin layer of dust.

---

Spain might have been the country of passion, might have had the biggest and fiercest heart of them all, but said heart couldn't possibly tell his Lovino his own unexpected fate.

Then again, he was sure that the 'passion' he prided himself on was the cause of all of this.

After the news, and the wondering of why he hadn't known sooner, Spain sat in his lonely pueblo kitchen and reflected. Why was this time so different from any other time? For goodness sake, they'd done it infinity and 3 times already, so why is he pregnant now? All thoughts reverted back to his also pregnant twin. Supposedly, they got pregnant together at the same exact time.

Maybe they were linked in ways no one could ever think to understand.

Spain found it adorable, but not at the expense of his own little ward.

So the Spaniard continued to ponder what this would all result in. He'd have to tell Lovino eventually, he couldn't let him go on thinking he'd gotten fat. Or wait until he goes into labor and gets scared because he doesn't know what's going on.

But there was always that terrible idea: What if Lovino didn't want it at all?

The thought made Spain so very sad, he was afraid he'd tear up right then and there. But if his little cariño didn't want to be a madre, then he couldn't possibly force him to. He'd have to tell him quickly, if that were the case, so he'd still have the choice. Spain hated abortions as much as the next Catholic, but if it was necessary, let it be of a smaller child than a larger one.

He found himself outside of Romano's room once again, looking into sad darkness and waiting for the outline of his sweet babe to appear in his shifting eyes. Lo and behold, there he was, curled on his side just the way Spain had left him. He was as still as death, and Spain would have been overcome with even more worry, had words not fluttered from his lips.

"What do you want, stupid Spain?" it whimpered, and Spain could hear the tears. "Come to laugh at me some more?"

Spain didn't answer. He pressed his hands to both sides of the lighted doorway, much like a barrier in case his Lovino wanted to run away. No more time to beat around the bush, and with a hard gaze, he said it.

"You're pregnant."

But Lovino didn't say anything. Spain could only wonder what was going through his fiery little head. He probably doesn't believe me, Spain thought.

The room was as silent as it was black, and Lovino didn't even squirm in his sheets, let alone breathe.

"...Stupid Spain," he finally whispered, after the longest pause Spain had ever heard. What did that mean, exactly? Was he calling him stupid because he thought it was a joke, or that it was all Spain's fault, which it completely was?

From the tone of the voice, Spain could decipher nothing but a miserable little boy.

"...I can't be pregnant," he whispered even softer, just a swish of air from his lips, "I just can't."

Spain felt the dread welling up in the pit of his stomach like the premonition of a storm.

"...If you don't want it, I can..." kill an innocent unborn baby "...I can take you to a clinic and-"

"Stupid Spain!"

A black leather shoe flew across the room to hit Spain straight in the chest, but the attack was weak and the strength nearly nonexistent. But it made Spain watch his ward closely, watch the tears glisten in the hallway's artificial light.

"Miracolo!" he muttered heatedly.

Spain was taken aback quickly. Not only had he believed him, but he wanted to keep it? Maybe the world was upside down today, and whales flew in the sky.

"...L-Lovino," he whispered into the dark, "Lovino, are you sure?"

He watched his ward lose his tense stiffness of limbs, and fall back onto his messy bed with a soft huff. His hands rested on the still so slight bump.

"Miracolo," he repeated, almost like he was unsure of himself. Maybe that this was a dream, or a nightmare? Who knew? All Spain knew was that his Lovino was going to be a madre.

"Lovino, Lovino, Lovino," he cried over and over again, striding into the room and gathering Lovino up, bedding and all, into his arms just like he would the baby they would soon be caring for. Romano, for once, did not make a single noise of protest: Not when Spain rained kisses over sweet browning skin. Not when Spain rubbed his little stomach so carefully, as if it were a thin sheet of ice. And especially not when Spain laid him softly under his taller leaner stronger body, and proceeded to snuggle and cuddle him like never before. It could have been worse, he would remind himself, stifling a moan when hands roved over sensitive bits of him.

It could have been worse.

---

The Spanish and Italian is pretty obvious, so I don't think they need translations.

And no, I am not going to give a lick of scientific theories haha. Use your imagination. TBC.


	2. Trimestre Dos

I'm sorry this chapter took so long. I'm starting my senior year of high school, and I needed to get my AP summer projects done because I am a procrastinator.

And as promised (sort of), here's a smutty Germany x Italy lemon. Next chapter is Spain x Romano!

Please enjoy.

---

Italy just kept getting bigger and bigger. Up until that point in time, 22 weeks along into his second trimester (Germany would definitely know. He was keeping a calendar.), Italy had gotten along fine with wearing Germany's shirts as dresses, since his own clothes didn't fit him, and Germany's pants were too big (Germany didn't want Italy wearing a belt either). They were long enough to cover him to mid thigh, and since he wasn't allowed outside anymore, he didn't have a problem with it. For Christ's sake, he'd rather run about naked like how he did at his house.

But no. He was at Germany's house, and Germany wanted him to wear clothes. So he did.

"Germany, Germany~" the boy sang, staring down at the buttons stretching and tearing at the seams. "Your clothes are too small now."

"That's hard to believe," was the call from the kitchen, the clicking and clanking heard too as Germany cleaned up after breakfast.

"Ve~! Look, look!" he cried, springing up from his seat at the dining room table and waddling as quickly as he could to Germany. His stomach felt tight against the stretched cotton, and he pointed and jumped about excitedly, ready to prove himself right. "It's too small!"

The German leaned against the countertops to give an overview of the plump boy, bouncing on his naked heels. His shirt really was too small, at least at the baby bump. Italy's arms and legs were still drowning in sleeves and shirttails meant for a bigger man.

"...I guess I should buy you new clothes, huh?" he muttered, still staring down intensely at his baby's mama.

"Ve~!" Italy complained suddenly, "But I like wearing Germany's clothes because they smell good."

"Well I can't very well fix that," the German replied, stretching his arms behind him on the countertop with a few healthy pops, "I'll go to town right now, alright?"

The Italian zipped his mouth and puffed his cheeks out, staring at the floor. Germany sighed, but his face twitched up a bit in a barely-there smile.

"...Would you like to come?"

Italy didn't answer (Even though Germany probably already knew the answer), but sped off to his bedroom to safety pin himself a pair of Germany's makeshift pants. In only a couple of minutes, they were off to do some shopping

Germany kept him close, and even gave Italy a pair of really cool sunglasses. Not like that would hide the telltale ahoge bouncing on his head. But Germany was smart, and gave Italy a neat fedora. He felt like he was ni-chan, all suave for the mafia. He proceeded to make gun noises under his breath as they walked closely on the sidewalk.

"Pew, pew~ Kaboom!" he whispered. Germany had told him to keep quiet, so he did (Except for when they walked by the bakery and he reeeaaally wanted some fresh breadsticks so he yelled on accident). And Germany had told him to walk real close together, so he did (Though he tripped a couple times and almost fell, but Germany saved him). "Puchoo!"

"Italy, what are you doing?"

"I'm in the mafia, Germany! See?" He stopped to pull a gun on him. But it wasn't really a gun; it was just his pointer finger and his thumb. He wouldn't ever shoot Germany. "Ve~! I'm not going to shoot you! I promise! Please don't be mad!"

Germany had given him a strange look, like he was surprised. But he only smiled and leaned forward to kiss his Italian on the forehead, tipping back the smooth fedora. Italy put his gun away.

"Come on already," Germany said quietly, pulling him by his former-gun hand into a clothing store that had a bunch of dresses on display.

"Ve~! This is a girl's store, Germany!" Germany shushed him and went deeper and deeper into the store, keeping his head down and his feet focused. Italy could still see his red face.

They practically hid in the deepest part of the store, even though there were only a few ladies in the store anyway, just so they couldn't be seen. Italy hid in one of the round racks, like he was just a little kid again. Germany frowned at him, so he got out really fast.

"Find something you like," he told him, still very red faced. Italy blinked, but smiled and went on his way. Hungary used to give him all kinds of pretty dresses when he was little. He wanted ones like that.

"Ve~~~~!" he cried as he waddled about, looking at all the dresses. They were so colorful! He didn't know where to start, so he turned back to Germany, who had his arms crossed and his eyes down to the floor. "...What would you like to see me in, Germany?"

Had it been anyone else but Germany (His brother would be the best example of that), one would have made a joke about 'seeing you naked rather than in clothes'. But this _was_ Germany, so he merely stuttered and stayed hot-faced.

"...Y...Y-You look good in blue..."

Italy smiled. "Really? I'm glad!"

Germany grumbled and tried not to watch Italy, but Feliciano caught him a couple times staring.

"...Ne, ne, Germany. Couldn't you have just bought me bigger shirts and stuff? At like, a guy's store?"

Germany looked like he was having trouble with his words, and became as red as a tomato.

"...The...The book said..."

Italy gave him a questioning look. "But...Aren't those books you read about ladies? I'm a boy, Germany! You should have gotten a book like that about boys!"

"I-Italy, there are no such books."

"But I'm preggernate or whatever, so there has be a book about that! Or else they wouldn't have a name for it!"

Germany fumbled on his voice again, but this time he rubbed his forehead like he did when he was tired. Italy veee~d at him.

"...T-The book said...Shopping for new clothes with your p...partner would make them feel more...secure...and more...a-attractive..."

Italy blinked.

"...But I am always secure with Germany! And he always tells me I look nice!"

Germany rubbed his head just a tad bit harder. But he sighed and watched his lover rock back and forth on his heels, staring at him with big chocolate eyes full of wonder.

"...That one," he muttered. Italy leaned forward to hear him better. "Veee~? What was that?"

"I like that one," he repeated louder, pointing at a royal blue summer dress on one of the racks. Italy cried out loud and ran to it excitedly.

"Veeeee~~~! It's so pretty! Can I have it, Germany? Can I?"

The fierce German nodded lightly. The Italian squealed and danced, splaying the dress against himself in comparison. He looked over to Germany happily, but noticed a tall blonde woman a ways behind him. She looked like she worked there!

"Miss~!" he cried out loudly, making Germany jump nearly a foot off the ground. The woman turned to him. "Miss~! Could I try this on, per favor?"

"Gewiss!" she answered with a smile. Italy's own smile faltered a little.

"Psst. Germany! What'd she say? Did she say yes?"

The German was so flustered, Italy was almost afraid he wouldn't tell him, which would just leave him guessing. "Y...Yes, she said yes."

Italy cooed and took Germany by the hand, dragging him across the store to the rooms the woman was showing him to. Germany pressed a flat hand to the side of his face, making sure none of the ladies in the store saw him.

The lady opened a door for him, and the Italian ran inside eagerly. When the woman turned to Germany, he quickly hid his face in his hand again.

"....D...Danke schön..."

She smiled and nodded to him before taking her leave.

Germany thanked God for the soft red leather chair they had placed right in front of the rooms. He threw himself into it and proceeded to rub his headache away, along with his utter embarrassment. He listened to the rustling of cotton and the whining of the Italian beyond the door. He sighed.

"...Does it fit?" he asked quietly, as to not aggravate himself. The door clicked open, and he waited for the Italian to step out, but he still hid behind it. "What's wrong?"

"...Would Germany still like me if I looked like a girl?"

The German couldn't possibly have much patience left.

"Yes, it doesn't matter what you look like," he answered matter-of-factly. "Just show it to me already."

"Veee..."

The door opened.

The first thought in Germany's mind was practically every memory of a sexual encounter with the Italian condensed into 2 seconds, a terribly forceful burst of arousal.

The second thought in Germany's mind was something along the lines of practicing temperance for the rest of his life and shooting puppies in the face.

And when that wouldn't work, he just thought harder, dead puppies, no beer, dead puppies!

Seeing the Italian resting his hands over the big bump of his stomach, dressed in a thin-strapped blue dress (Which looked so dramatic with his russet colored hair and eyes) did wonders to Germany's sex drive.

Italy pouted at Germany's red twitchy face. "You don't like i-"

"We're buying it. Now. And then we're going home."

The finality in Germany's voice made Italy cringe, but he voiced his protest.

"B-But Germany! I can't just wear this every day! I need more clo-"

"Later," he ground out, standing quickly and pushing Italy back into his dressing room with as little force as he could hold back. Italy squealed but did what the German wanted, stepping out only moments later in the too-tight clothes. The German practically ran through the whole purchasing process, dashing down the streets, dragging Italy all the way.

"Germany, wha..."

But then he noticed the bulge in Germany's deep green uniform trousers, and smiled.

"...Maybe I really should wear it everyday!"

---

That Spain bastard had better stop touching him. At least, if he knew what was good for him.

But apparently he didn't, and continued to coddle and caress and coo at Romano as if _he_ were the baby he had growing inside his belly.

"Damn it! Quit it already, stupid Spain!"

"But cariño, the bebito has to know who I am!"

"Fuck that! Stupid Spain, stop touching me like I'm some sort of hands-on experiment!"

"Queridooooo~!"

"Shut up! I bet the baby can't even t-"

Too suddenly for Spain's liking, his Italy stopped all protest and tensed, hands immediately dropping to his stomach as if in pain. Of course the Spaniard was there in a second flat, kneeling in front of his lover's stomach and holding his hands tight.

"Lovino? Lovino, what's wrong?

"...Nothing, stupid Spain," he whispered, still a little frazzled, "...It just kicked really hard."

Spain stared up at his lover's face, still red with anger, but solemn from pain.

"...You didn't tell me you could feel it," Spain voiced, still kneeling with the round belly in his face. Romano huffed and puffed up his cheeks.

"If I had told you, you'd never stop touching me!"

It's not as if Spain would stop trying either way. He stared forward silently at the baby bump, slowly lifting up Romano's shirt.

"D-Don't you dare, you bastard..." died on Romano's lips as soon as he felt Spain's soft warm cheek press to his thinly stretched skin. The Spaniard listened intently to the harsh thumping of Romano's flustered heart, and waited for his baby to say hello.

"...Stop it," Romano whispered in all futility. Even he couldn't stand up to the sight of his lover with that focused and loving face trying his hardest to feel his child deep within. And as if the baby knew exactly who it was, it gave a soft kick from behind fleshy walls, pressing back against Spain's determined ear. Said man looked up at the red-faced Italy with an expression that couldn't possibly be happier even if he tried. Romano could feel his heart contracting even tighter in his chest.

"L...Lovino!" he murmured, palms flat on his lover's side, warming the taut skin. He soon looked back down, at the stomach with the belly button pushed out in strain, the stomach with his kid.

"...Mi niño!" he said to the bulge. Romano could have sworn he was crying. "You learned how to say 'hola'!"

The Italian boy could feel his knees going weak, from either the emotion welling up in his stupid pathetic heart, or the pressure on his legs.

"...Stupid Spain, let me sit down," he voiced with difficulty, trying to swallow his own tears. Spain nodded once, standing and leading the young nation to a nearby chair gently.

But as soon as he helped him to sit, he was back on his knees, talking to his baby.

"Niño...Your madre and padre are waiting for you! You can't imagine how happy we'll be! You will be absolutely...increíblemente hermoso!"

"...S-Stupid Spain," he whispered, hating himself for falling hard for the moment. "It's going to be a boy."

"Ah sí?" Spain laughed, still entranced with the hidden baby, "Well, even so, he shall be hermoso! How can he not be, with you as his madre?"

And suddenly, as if the waterways turned on, Romano let the tears fall over tomato red cheeks. He leaned forward over his exposed stomach and cried. Spain smiled carefully, petting Romano's hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed it most romantically.

"Shh, no, no, Lovino," he whispered, "No derrames lágrimas."

But that only brought more choking cries to Romano's lips.

Good thing Spain was good at kissing those sorts of things away.

---

_The hands on his skin felt like an electric blanket on a frozen December morning: Just what he needed._

"_G-Germany~"_

_A tongue nuzzled his nipples as finger played against his trembling cock. He rolled his hips against stronger, wider, bigger ones and gasped as if the breath before it was the last one he'd ever breathe again. His legs twined about the general's waist, pulling him forward._

"_Please, I need it."_

_The German didn't say a word, but massaged the Italians soft ass with both hands, pulling it apart to touch his dick to that little hole, pressing the head to the opening and putting more and more force into it until-_

"Aaahhhnnn!"

Italy cried out as he escaped the dream unwillingly, thrashing in illusionary ecstasy against his sticky sheets. He panted hotly into his pillow, creating a damp spot from his unhindered saliva. His body was electric, and still a going.

"B-Baby, please stop! Let m-me sleeeeeep!" he whispered against the haziness of his brain, speaking through the heat still pooling in his groin like lava. He looked to Germany, who seemed unfazed by the erotic outburst. Italy whined, petting his stomach shakily. "L-Look what you're making me d-do!"

Italy's arousal begged like a man starving for food, twitching angrily against the cold wet spot in the sheets. The boy shivered.

"Germany," he whispered, pressing a hand to the general's shoulder. The touch made the German jolt to attention, but it took a few moments for his eyes to open and focus. He blinked and rubbed at his throbbing eyelids. "I-Italy? What is it this time?"

Italy wasn't going to say it. He was tired, and his whole body hurt, yet his horniness was something else entirely. The Italians were lovers, after all. So he simply waited for Germany to come to and notice his dilemma.

"I had a dream. About the two of us," he helped, feeling his veins pulsing, ready to burst when given the chance. Germany sat up on his elbows and stared forward blankly. Italy's hands fisted in the sheets beneath him sporadically, trying to stave off the intoxication, until he threw all cares aside. "Please! Please it hurts so much!"

Germany wanted to jump up and ask what hurt and what he could do to help ease it, like another massage or just a cuddle if it was an emotional pain. But instead, he was pushed back down and sat on by his plump Italian lover. The hard curve of his stomach pressed onto his rocky abs, and Germany swallowed any coherent complaints he could think of.

"Please, Germany, please!" Italy whispered above his general, rocking his hips down against him. The German bit his tongue, trying to regain his voice despite the lovely gratification his groin was being given.

"I-Italy, just calm d-down," he whispered, hands gripping the pregnant man's hips a little too hard, sitting up. Italy whined loudly and laced his arms around the German's neck, continuing to bounce.

"I need you, Germany," he gasped into the bigger man's ear, his breath wet with unopposed want.

The German gulped.

Even in the dark of the room, Germany could see the burning in the boy's cheeks and the sparkling in his eyes. His little arms trembled sweetly against his shoulders, and how could Germany say no to that?

"Alright, alright," as if he were a child being told to do a chore. He pushed Italy onto his back gently, ever so careful of that budding life between them, and caressed down his pale sides. He never liked rushing things, because that led to error, but the Italian kept making it harder and harder to do.

"Germany! G-Germany, please just fuck me! I need it so bad!" he cried helplessly beneath wary German hands, arching and squirming and rocking still against the other. Germany bit his cheek.

"Italy..." he muttered, looking down into the pitiful eyes under the ministration of his efforts, impatience too fierce. Germany complied yet again. "...If you say so..."

It always helped that the Italian slept naked. So Germany went straight for the gold.

"Ahhhhn~!" the boy cried as he was stroked sweetly, despite the rough calluses and strong fingers on Germany's hand. His thighs quivered as they touched Germany's sides, intent on trapping him in between his legs. "G-G-G-Germany!"

As one hand went up and down, the other drew patterns of love across white Italian skin. His hand skimmed under the little back pressed to the sheets and up to his front, trailing over pert nipples and a shivering belly.

"Ger-Germany, I-!"

"Yes, just a bit, hold on."

The Italian whined loudly into the sheets meeting the side of his head as Germany leaned over him to reach the tube of lube on the bedside table. Italy wept in the shadow of Germany's larger body, his hands coming up to trace every bump of his abs. Soon, he felt the telltale pressure of a finger at his hole. He raised his feet to rest at Germany's shoulders, keeping them high in the air for better leverage. "P-Please hurry!"

One oily finger turned to two in a matter of seconds, and from two to three, scissoring and pulling and pushing. Italy was about to go crazy. The fingers wiggled inside him, touching familiar places, exploring nothing new. But after an excruciating moment, the fingers retreated to be replaced by the German's very own arousal. The Italian squealed in anticipation, holding steady to Germany's neck again as he leaned over into his ear.

"Sorry if this hurts," he warned quietly, pushing forward into that tight little opening, his head breaching it and resting in Italy's insides as he waited for the boy to calm down. Italy's toes were curling against Germany's shoulders, his thighs shaking in pleasure.

"G-Gyaaahh!" he cried, biting onto the sheets fisted in his hands, arching up harder. "G-Germany, faster! Germannnyyyy!"

The general sighed into the whining Italian's neck, reluctantly pushing all the way in at once and pulling all the way back out, starting his harsh rhythm. His hips snapped clean against Italy's ass, every tug and shove making the boy beneath him slide against the crisp sheets. The stomach between them bounced in tune, and Germany was pressed so close, he could practically feel the baby kicking back at his stomach.

"Ahhhhhhn! Ah! Ah!" the Italian cried out, rubbing against quickly heating sheets. His feet fidgeting like mad against the German's shoulders, groping for a release it had yet to obtain, even with the strong pale hand jerking up and down around the boy's erection.

Germany watched the way his lover's curl bounced with every thrust forward, like a cat's eyes trained to a feather on a string. His thrusts grew harder, pumping almost angrily, as he reached his unoccupied hand out to brush a finger around the curl.

Italy barely had time to scream as he exploded in Germany's other hand, his face streaked with tears and red with arousal. He trembled violently and thrust his arms around Germany's neck as he kept going inside him, fucking him for his own satisfaction now. Italy's grip screamed 'no more, no more, I can't handle it!', Germany's hand still milking the last of his pearly seed out. But soon, the German let out a loud suppressed grunt, pushing into his pregnant lover as hard as he could one last time and cumming deep within. The Italian squealed after the moment was over and Germany slipped out of his used hole and flopped down to the bed, ready to go back to sleep.

"Germany~~~"

Next thing he knew, the boy was straddling the German's naked hips. Cum dripped down his thighs and coated Germany's skin lightly, making him shiver and stare up at the smiling nation, whose new erection glistened in the white moonlight through the window.

"I never said we were done~!"

---

Spain never thought maternity play could be so absolutely beautiful.

But Romano being Romano made things that much better.

Spain saw him walking down the mud colored hallways, a light waddle to his step, a chupa chup in his mouth.

"It's not as if I like this shit," he said, "My teeth hurt so I need to suck on something."

Spain almost felt happy tears prick at his eyes. "Really? Are you sure mi hijo doesn't love the taste of his padre's favorite candy?"

"No, of course not!" He spat out, pulling the candy from his mouth angrily, "If anything, this shit is making my stomach turn! Stupid Spain!"

"I could have given you something better to suck on," he muttered, leaving farther back into his soft red couch, rustling the newspaper he had been reading before Romano had made his appearance. His nonchalant comment made the Italian bristle like a cat.

"Wh-What?" he screamed, face red with anger or embarrassment, who knew? "You perverted freak! What's wrong with you? Don't talk to me like tha-"

"So what's your favorite flavor?"

"Melon, but what does that have to do..."

After a pregnant pause, with the pun completely intended, Spain sputtered out a snicker.

"I'll fucking kill you!"

Spain threw the newspaper to the side, the pages flying out and scattering all across the floor as he readied himself for the angry head butt his Lovino planned for him. Instead, Spain wrapped his arms around the furiously struggling boy as he launched himself at him and laughed wholeheartedly.

"Lovino! Oh my Lovino, you are precioso!"

"Don't talk to me like that!"

"Then I'll talk to mi hijo!"

"No! No, I've had enough of your baby talk!"

"But he hasn't!" Spain smiled out, rolling Lovino onto the couch and lifting his shirt up to stare at the bulge beneath. "Mi hijo! Mi hijo, hola!"

"Stop that! He's going to learn Italian first!"

"Eh?" Spain lifted his head up to see Lovino's face just beyond the large curve of his stomach, red-cheeked and pouting. "Mi querido, do you ever talk to him?"

If possible, Romano's puffed cheeks got even puffier, and his gaze slipped down to the floor.

"...What does it matter? He can't hear me."

The disheartened response made Spain frown. "Of course he can, cariño! See? Can't you feel him say hola?" he placed his hand low on the bump, and as if to provide proof, the baby kicked softly against it. "Hola, padre!"

"He's going to like you more than me!"

Spain looked back up to Romano's face, analyzing the emotion in his eyes. "Querido, you know that won't happen. You're his madre!"

"When I talk to him...When I talk, he doesn't kick! He," and Romano suddenly felt hot tears on his face, "H-He only listens to you!"

Spain frowned again, which wasn't something he normally did twice in one day.

"Lovino," he whispered, leaning over and stroking his bangs from his moistening eyes, "our hijo will love you even more than I ever possibly can. He came from you."

"S-So?" the Italian cried, rubbing his sleeved arm across his eyes, only making them redder, "He doesn't know me! He doesn't _want_ to know me! He doesn't even like the sound of my voice!"

"Shhhh, shush, shush," the Spaniard uttered under his breathe, kissing a trail of tears right in the middle, "Do you think that's all he likes? He likes the way his madre feeds him, and keeps him warm, and is always holding him, no matter what. Padre can't do those things."

Without a proper retort, Romano only sobbed and covered his face. The last time Spain had said wonderful things about the baby, Romano had cried. Now, saying wonderful things about Romano himself, the result is the same.

"...Lovino...Lovino, do you regret it? Is that why you cry?"

Romano promptly shoved the Spaniard hard in the chest with his tight fists, oxygen hissing from clenched teeth.

"You don't know what it's like, carrying around a baby! A baby that won't kick when I sing to it, a baby that won't stop kicking when I plead for it to st-stop! Even wh-when you want it to love you, it won't! It won't!"

Lovino's hands fisted in Spain's dress shirt, almost as if trying to get a grip on his very heart. Spain couldn't say it wasn't working.

"You try giving birth to a baby that you know won't love you!"

"Lovino, stop it."

And he did, with teeth chewing on his bottom lip and more salty tears falling down trembling cheeks. He gasped for breath like a fish out of water, and relaxed back into the arm of the sofa. Spain remained trained and attentive over his lover. He grazed the back of his hand across the side of his lover's wet face. A kiss was pressed right under his ear and up his jawbone, along his temple, down his cheek, beside his nose. Romano tried to breathe.

"Lovino, you need to calm down. You don't know anything about that bebito, and neither do I. Just because he kicks when I talk doesn't mean he likes me. For god's sake, he could be kicking to tell me to shut up!"

The tears didn't stop, but flat sad cheeks grew just a bit rounder for a pout. His shining brown eyes turned up to Spain's own emeralds, giving him the look that told him he had said the correct thing. "...If that were true, he'd be a smart baby."

Spain smiled.

---

Here are some translations for all the words that you can't immediately recognize.

German:

Gewiss = Of course

Spanish:

Hermoso = Beautiful

No derrames lagrimas = Cry no tears (Poetic of "don't cry")

Chupa Chups = Famous Spanish lollipop that has a variety of unusual flavors

Hijo = Son

Excuse me if any of those are incorrect. The only languages I know are English and Japanese, and what little German I get from my mother, which are usually just curse words and commands haha.

TBC! I hope to get the next chapter out faster than I did this one!


	3. Trimestre Tres

Jesus this took forever. I'm sorry, guys, life has been hard, I'm tight on money, and school's harder than it looks, so I had to get everything out of the way before I could finish this! But now it's done, and this is the longest chapter so far, so good job me!

As promised, a Spain x Romano lemon.

Only one more chapter to go and this is all done! Are you excited?! I'll have to find something else to write haha~! But this was a nice project altogether, and I hope you're all liking it.

Thanks, and please enjoy!

---

"I'm surprised I can even fit through a fucking door!"

Spain watched in amusement as his lover easily passed through the doorway to his study without a hint of complication.

"Lovino, you think too hard on these things. You are perfectly healthy!"

"You damn bastard," he growled, "You aren't the size of a whale. Try it out and see how it feels!"

Spain laughed out loud, removing his reading glasses and putting them to his desk, leaning back in his leather chair. "Mi dios! What a threat!"

Romano pouted, his arms resting over the gigantic bump.

Antonio had been counting the days, much to Romano's chagrin (He was reminded every morning, waking up to the words "only so-and-so days left!" like it was just a ticking time bomb). And in all reality, Romano could go into labor at any moment.

"You should be resting," he murmured, lacing his fingers together and staring up at his little lover at the door. "Who knows when you'll pop, querido?"

"Apparently you do," he growled back. "So let me do as I please for the last moments of my manhood."

"Don't be dramatico! Besides, Ita-chan's coming over for a visit today, so that should make you happy!"

The Italian scoffed, jerking his head away from Spain's direction. "That stupid little brother of mine doesn't know how to close his legs."

"Hey now," the Spaniard chided, "That isn't very nice. You're in the same exact position."

"But I'm not going to give birth to a dumb muscular baby. It's all that stupid potato bastard's fault!"

"So if you're both in the same situation, what does that make me? The tomato bastard?"

Spain laughed as he watched Romano puff up his sweet tanned cheeks and shift heavily on his feet.

"...But...I like tomatoes..."

Spain let his grin overtake his face, his eyes closing in utter happiness. He outstretched his arms toward his pregnant lover, who hesitantly waddled towards him. "Come here, cariño!"

He pulled the pouting boy into his lap, who fell heavily onto his legs to remind him just how big he'd gotten. Spain didn't seem to mind.

"Chiquitito, are you excited?"

Romano felt large brown hands bunch his shirt up to his waist and rest along the perfect curve of his bump. "No."

"Ah! Why not?"

Romano zipped up his mouth and puffed out his cheeks. Spain's grin faded to a barely content smile.

"...Are you scared?"

Romano turned his head away and didn't say anything.

"Cariño, everything will be fine!" he emphasized his assurance with a slow and sweet caress all across the large stomach, almost as if he were asking the baby to be okay and not give his madre too much trouble. "No te preocupes"

"You can't promise me anything," the Italian whispered softly. Spain bounced the boy on his knee, making him gasp and grab onto his lover's shirt for support.

"You quit that, querido," the Spaniard warned, "You're going to curse it."

"As if you care!" the Italian cried, pushing himself off the conquistador angrily, though staggering about in his utter imbalance. "As if you care what happens to me! This-This baby could kill me, and...And which one would you love more? Which one would you sacrifice?"

Spain frowned and jumped out of his chair. True, Romano had gone to the doctor for all the medical advice and instructions for birthing a baby, despite his gender, and the doctor had told him his hips were just not built for giving birth (As he was in fact, male). He'd have to have a c-section, while Feliciano wouldn't (His hips were much softer and round), and that's what scared Romano the most: He wasn't going to do this like his brother. The health risk was extremely low (especially since nations were so hard to kill), and even then, Italy had a relatively high cesarean rate in their hospitals!

Spain pointed a finger at Romano heatedly, though he wouldn't admit he was exactly mad at him. "Lovino, you are being very difficult! You and the baby are both important to me! Please don't say hurtful things like that, cariño."

Romano stomped his foot loudly, clenching his fists at his sides. "Stupid Spain! If you had the choice, you'd save the baby! You talk to that thing more than you talk to me! Admit it! You're getting tired of m-"

"Lovino!"

The shout nearly permeated the very air. Antonio had never risen his voice to the Italian before, no matter how many times the boy had called him names and broken priceless antiques and caused trouble. But Spain was angry now.

They stayed silent for what seemed forever, neither making a move. Spain hadn't meant to yell, but this last week had been hard on him, reminding himself that he was going to be a father. A padre! Spain wanted to take a deep breath, calm down a bit, explain to his Lovino what he wanted to say, tell him how much he loved him and it didn't even matter that they were going to be parents any day now, that he loved him and always will. But instead, he watched as the boy's face slowly fell from frustration to the ever powerful and absolute sadness. His expression twisted into the most heartbroken look Spain had ever seen on the boy, and to Spain's horror, big fat tears appeared in his pregnant lover's eyes and began to drip down his tomato red cheeks.

"...L-Lovi-"

The boy bolted out of that room faster than any pregnant mother should have been able to. He could hear the sound of sobbing rushing out the door, fading until it was holed up in one of the Spanish mansion's many rooms. And then, all there was to hear was the tearing in Spain's chest, as his blood turned to ice and his heart broke like a baseball meeting a window. He took a wobbly step back and fell into his leather chair with a huff of protest from the soft foam cushioning. The Spaniard pressed his head to the palms of his hands and rested his elbows on the desk before him, sighing in emotional exhaustion.

"...Mi dios."

---

"Germany! Germany! We're here~!"

"Yes, I can see that."

The Italian waddled to the door, ve-ing the whole way, as if it helped the pressure in his abdomen. Germany strolled alongside him.

"Veee~! I haven't seen ni-chan in so long!" Italy cried, looking up to Germany, "Do you think he'll be angry with you?"

Germany groaned inwardly. He'd received several hundred anonymous messages and letters telling him exactly where he was going and how exactly it was going to happen in explicit detail. Every one had been addressed to the "potato bastard". Germany wasn't going to inform his lover of this if he could help it. "...I think he'll be happy being an uncle..."

"Ve! And a madre! What a bonus~!

"You're going to be an uncle too, you know."

Italy cooed loudly as they met the heavy steel gate to Spain's manor, opening it into his garden and walking slowly up to the door, as to enjoy the garden to its fullest.

"An uncle~! Veee~ I'll take him on picnics, and read him storybooks, and give him a puppy for his birthday, and take siestas with him, and teach him how to cook pasta..."

"Italy, you'll have your own baby to take care of. You can do all those things with your child."

"Oh, yeah! I will!"

Germany felt the signs of a headache making their way through his brain, but he looked down to Italy's cheerier-than-the-sun face, smiling and laughing and being all around glowing, and he forgot what was so annoying in the first place.

"Ding dong, ding dong!" Italy cried as he rang the large brass bell connected to the front door. It swung back and forth heavily, filling the serene air with deep chimes that scared the birds from their tall concrete birdbaths. After a moment, Spain opened the enormous mahogany doors and smiled half-heartedly at them.

"Ay! Hola, hola! Come in!" he ushered, bringing in the pair with plastic happiness. Italy must not have caught on, so he merely kissed the Spaniard in greeting.

"Ve~! Where is ni-chan? Doesn't he want to see me?"

Germany watched as Spain's face fell, though he continued to smile for the Italian.

"Ah...Lovino has locked himself up and won't come out. Maybe you can console him, si?"

Italy nodded fervently and shuffled quickly into the depths of the house, calling out "fratello, fratello!" with every door he found. Germany looked to Spain, silently asking the question Spain knew he wanted to ask. The man gave him a sad smile.

"I yelled at him," he said, "and he cried."

Germany frowned, remembering that same situation with his own voice and his own Italian lover. However, Germany could only deduce that his Italian was much, much, more forgiving than Spain's. And Germany was always yelling, so Italy had only to get used to it.

"...I see," Germany replied, standing tall and strong in silent sympathy beside his counterpart. "...Then he must be much more sensitive with you than he is with me."

"Si," Spain smiled again, much more thoughtfully, "Si, because you are not his lover."

Germany had no reply to that piece of obviousness, but Spain pointed in the direction of his kitchen, silently offering refreshments, and Germany only nodded and followed behind his host obediently.

---

Italy was getting tired, and fast. His feet had hurt before he even began the search because of his silly baby, and now they were even worse. He whined down the long mud-colored adobe halls.

"Niiiii-chaaaaaannnn~~~~! Please come out, I'm so tired~~! I just want to seeeee yooouuu~! Veee~!"

"Stop whining, stupid."

An open door called out to Italy farther down the corridor. The Italian bobbled over to it happily. "Ni-chan! Ni-chan let me see you!"

Romano glared with what little anger he could muster at his cuter happier softer little brother, and he hated himself that much more. "What do you want?"

"Fratello~" Italy whined, lips up in a sad pout, "Don't you want to visit me?"

"Not right now," he muttered, yet let the boy into the room anyway and closed the door behind him, clicking the lock in place.

"B...But," the younger stuttered, looking up at the red-rimmed eyes of his elder brother. "Ni-chan, we're doing this together! A-And, I m-m-missed you and I wanted to see you super bad!"

Romano watched his brother burst into tears, and he could feel his guts twist furiously, as if punishing him for being so bad mannered to the innocent boy. He could feel his easy emotions welling to the surface again, and he'd cried far too much that day.

"Come on, don't be a baby!" Romano grit his teeth. "If you cry, that means I'll start crying too. Do you want that?"

Italy hiccupped and sobbed, indifferent. "N-N-No, but ni-chan doesn't want to see meeee!"

Romano's body ached beyond reason, and he had had a headache before his brother even showed up (All the crying over that stupid Spain). Now was not the time to be having a fight with his little brother too.

"Alright, alright, I missed you too, okay? Just stop crying, damn it."

Italy rubbed his soiled face on his coat sleeve, making his brother grimace in disgust, but relieved that the prickling behind his sore and red eyelids had stopped.

"Ni-chan, w-why are you all locked up?"

"Because," Romano gave him angrily, "Stupid Spain doesn't love me anymore."

Feliciano laughed, and Romano felt the prickling again.

"That's silly~! Spain ni-chan loves you lots and lots and lots! All he ever talks about is how you pick him tomatoes and make him yummy pasta and take siestas with him and go to market with him and how you were so naughty when you were little!"

Lovino's skin trembled softly as he watched his little brother continue through sopping eyes. He didn't even try to dry his face.

"Whenever I talk to Spain ni-chan, he's always going on about you, and I can barely get him to say anything else! It's always about how you did the laundry that day, or slept until noon, or how you were out in the garden until the sun fell down and you couldn't find your way back to the house so Spain ni-chan had to go find you!"

His throat burned as he contained a cry, his tears trailing quickly down his cheeks. But his little brother lifted up his pale little hands and rubbed them against his face, giving him a smile that could melt the very sun. "Don't cry, ni-chan. Ti amo, ti amo."

The Italian duo pressed together in an embrace that was sweeter than any candy, hands holding and petting and soothing and begging and seeking. Their bellies bumped together strangely, and Romano wanted nothing more than to be able to hug his little brother in a normal fashion. The swollen stomachs rubbed softly, and Feliciano looked down at them happily.

"My baby says 'ti amo' too!"

Even with barely a half of a quarter inch height difference, Romano wrapped his arms around his little brother's head and brought it to his chest, cradling it gently with the care a mother would give to her child. Feliciano closed his eyes and was lulled by the sound of the deep thumping in Lovino's chest, the swaying of their entwined bodies, and the kicking fight their babies were having between them. He sighed against his older brother quietly.

"You're going to be the best mama ever."

---

Germany sat beside Spain at his large dining table, sipping silently on his glass of orange juice. He watched the Spaniard, whose face was downtrodden and contemplative, as he watched his own cold glass permeate perspiration.

"...I'm sure he'll be fine," he said quietly, slowly, as to not upset his host. Spain nodded solemnly.

"...I hope he forgives me before the baby's born. What would it be like, being locked outside the delivery room and knowing I won't be the first person to see my son?"

Germany's constant frown deepened, staring down at his orange beverage. He had never been acquainted well with the other livid Italian, besides the unwanted prejudice and hate mail, so he couldn't judge on the situation. If Romano had a heart, then he'd let Spain be a father. And Germany knew he had a heart: he was alive, wasn't he?

They waited silently again, in the lonely adobe kitchen, the occasional bird chirping outside the window, or the forlorn sighing from the Spaniard, breaking the quiet every once in a while. Germany enjoyed peace, since he seldom ever had it, living with his insane older brother and the ever-energetic Italian, but this peace was dyed with a black misery that seeped into the German's skin and refused to dilute.

"...He's probably going through a lot of stress right now, and he's just scared."

Spain slowly turned his eyes to his guest, and for a moment, Germany thought he'd said the wrong things and dishonored Romano's character, but the conquistador's tanned lips curled into a pure smile. "But so am I!"

Germany grumbled out a soft cough, his face heating.

"He has hormones as an excuse."

Spain grinned wider, and left it at that. The air cleared.

The Spanish night was crisp and chilled, the crickets chirping to keep warm, the owls in the trees hooting in reply. Germany worried over what the Italians could be doing for so long. He looked to his watch. It wasn't too late, but he was a man or proper principles, and to be here this long would be intruding.

He didn't need to fret much longer, because soon, they could hear the pitter-patter of boot-clad feet against stone floor, and Feliciano rounded the corner of the hall. He pulled along a melancholy Romano behind him, whose eyes remained glued to the ground. Italy waddled over to Germany, the hand that wasn't holding his brother's hand rubbing at drowsy eyes.

"Sorry, Germany! We fell asleep~!"

At any other time, Germany would have lectured him on being a rude guest and wasting valuable social time sleeping, but the air became cloudy with emotion with the presence of the ever-absent Lovino. He nodded quickly, and pressed a flat hand to the small of his lover's back, ushering him to the door.

"That's okay. Let's go home and eat gelato."

The Italian squealed and practically stampeded out the door, while Germany turned and bowed in gratitude for the visit like a proper general, though keeping his eyes anywhere but the bearers of his thanks. He turned on his heels and left without seeming too hurried, which didn't help with him closing the door a little too loudly and shattering the silent aura.

Spain wrung his hands in his shirt, still smiling. Romano was silent and impassive.

"I...I'm really sorry, Lovino. I didn't mean to get so angry, I was very anxious, and I know that I shouldn't have taken it out on you, but you looked so unhappy, and then I thought you didn't want the baby after all, and you were saying such cruel things, and it hurt to think I made yo-"

"Shut up," the boy whispered. He didn't say anything else, and continued to stare at the floor through rubbed-red eyes that were blossoming with tears that stung raw flesh. Spain bit his lip, his hands shaking in a need to be doing something, anything, yet remained idle. He dropped to his knees heavily, and the painful cracking noise made the Italian fidget and look up through an ocean. The Spaniard kneeling before him rested his head softly against his lover's stretched womb, and all Romano could see was his trembling head of chocolate hair.

"...Please forgive me," it whispered, "...I want to be a good padre. I want to be a good marido."

"I'm not your wife," the boy choked out through the swelling of his throat. Spain took his hands to Lovino's and squeezed, the line of his gaze rising just over the bulge in front of him.

"Si, you are."

The Italian hiccupped in an attempt to hide his sobs, which only spurred the conquistador to stand back up and take the young man into his strong warm arms. Spain rested his head on top of Romano's, waiting for the shaking boy to calm down and quell his tears. He'd whisper soft Spanish into the chestnut hair by his lips, words that rolled off the tongue like liquid, until the boy stood limply in his embrace. Hypnotized by his tender language, the Italian closed his throbbing eyes and breathed into the cottony white fabric of Spain's tunic, smelling the streets of Madrid and its la movida scene, feeling the rumble of a heart that never sleeps.

They kissed as if they had never done such a thing before. It was chaste and experimental, like children on a playground. But the mood went on an incline, quickly growing more and more heated, more and more loving. And in those yielding lips, Spain could hear the words "you are forgiven" ringing about in his head until he promised never to forget. His hands framed the boy's face against his, kissing and kissing and neither of them could breathe but at least everything was okay.

One step, two step, it looked like a waltz, as they twirled down the long corridor to Spain's master bedroom, the floor plush under their bare feet and the bed springing to life as they dropped to it.

Brown hands flew over cold pale skin before the Italian could even moan in response, his oversized maternity shirt sliding off his body and losing it to the floor. The Italian breathed hotly into the Spaniard's ear as the very audible sound of the zipper to the pregnant boy's pants hissed in the silence. They were also quickly lost.

"Lovino, Lovino," he chanted against white skin, arching his body between parted thighs and rubbing up in him. Romano laid back and watched the Spaniard loom over his ready-to-burst stomach. Green as jewels eyes scanned his skin lewdly in the same way his large farmer hands did: Caressing for the sake of touching. The Italian whined as the Spaniard's mouth met his jugular, sucking hard until it was purple with blood. He squirmed and cried out as big familiar hands drove lower down his plump little body, a soft chuckle sounding as they curved smoothly over the baby as if he were tracing the pattern that was Lovino. Romano watched over the high arc of his stomach as the Spaniard's head dipped down, down, down, and his heart went bump, bump, bump, and soon all the Italian could feel was sweet indefinable pleasure as his "husband" sucked him down.

"Caspita!" was the only thing that could escape his mouth at that moment, his hands fisting in the sheets. He couldn't see anything beyond his bulging stomach, but he wished he could dig his shaking hands into his lover's chocolate hair and hold on for dear life. His legs bent at the knees and trapped Spain's head between them, as he bobbed up and down over the Italian's cock. His tongue, so talented from sucking on all those chupa chups in his lifetime, curled around the head and hummed. He felt Romano's trembling feet rest on his shoulders and push lightly.

"N-N-No more! No more!" he heard his little lover cry. He smiled around the penis and withdrew, wrapping his hands around the boy's ankles and pulling them down to his waist. He licked his lips as he gazed over at the tomato-faced Italian below him, half his face smothered in crisp white sheets and a thin trail of saliva escaping his mouth to dribble down his chin. "P-Please!"

"Si, si...Cualquier cosa por ti."

Being the country of lovers and the country of passion, nights were always perfect for lovemaking. Spain knew just where to touch, and Italy knew just the way to squirm and cry, making them both ready to explode.

Spain coated his fingers in the KY he always kept on the table by the bed (Though Romano always told him to hide it when guests came over, he never did) and spread the cold goo around Romano's hole, issuing a strong yelp from the boy. He pushed in one dark slick finger after the other, until Romano cried out for him to stop again.

"Cariño, siéntate derecho por favor."

The Italian did as he was asked, attempting to sit up, but his large stomach was giving him a heap of trouble. Spain laughed softly as he took his "wife" by the hand and helped him up. He rolled them about gently, leaning against the headboard to his king-sized bed and drawing the very pregnant boy onto his lap. Romano tried to breathe as he placed a leg on either side of Spain, feeling his twitching erection rubbing against his stretched hole.

"Cuidado," the older nation warned softly in his Lovino's ear, resting his hands on sharp boyish hips and guiding Romano into a sitting position. Romano gripped Spain by the shoulders and sat down on the dick presented before him, letting it slowly slip into him. He let his mouth hang open as the intense sensation settled in his belly and he fell gently to the hilt with a grunt from the Spaniard. "Mi dios!"

As soon as the Italian gained his ground, he began to bounce. His stretched tummy rubbed up and down against Spain's abdomen with each fall of his hips, and his legs trembled at having to keep on his knees withal the extra weight. He moaned and locked eyes with the drooling Spaniard. "H-H-Help me!"

Spain faded from his daze and smiled, nodded, and leaned farther back into the headboard. He shifted his hips to get into the right position under the Italian, and Romano was just about to nag about what was taking so long, until suddenly, his hips piston up, and rip an awfully loud screech from the boy. Spain laughs as he thrusts up and up, driving deeper into him with every snap, and Romano has no choice but to grip Spain by the shoulders again and hold on for the bumpy ride.

Each thrust was met with a softer, more subdued push from the Italian above, since Spain's pace was barely being kept by the pregnant one, and it was getting harder and harder for Romano to control his voice (not like he remembered when he was or wasn't).

"A-Antonio! Nngh!"

"Si, si, si! Say my name! Nombre!"

The Italian could feel his insides tightening, and his baby protesting madly. But all he cared about right then was the pulsing and throbbing of his ass and the delicious friction his dick was getting from Spain's abs and his own bouncing belly.

"Annn! A-Antoniooo!"

Spain laughed out loud again, driving in furiously until Romano couldn't take it anymore, and spilled white all over their stomachs in the midst of an unrestrained howl at the ceiling. Spain leaned up and pressed his face to Lovino's heavily pounding chest and jerked up one last time before coating the boy's insides with his sticky seed. He let out a chant of "Lovino, Lovino, Lovino!" as he wrapped his arms around the whining and panting nation and lowered him to lie on his back safely. He kissed up his neck and took his smaller paler hands into his larger darker ones and whispered syrupy foreign yet familiar words into his ear. But something was off.

"...Is...Am I allowed to...to...Have sex while I'm...Pregnant?" the Italian whimpered breathlessly. The Spaniard nuzzled his face into the boy's shoulder and loved upon it.

"Of course! It shouldn't hurt him!"

"...It...It hurts, though."

Spain paused, raising himself to loom over the boy, and looked him over. His hands were flexing painfully over his bulging middle, and his tomato red face he'd gained through the lovemaking had yet to disappear. Spain eyed him suspiciously.

"...Querido...On a scale from one to te-"

"Thirty!" he cried, tears forming quickly in russet eyes and shoulders violently trembling.

Spain jumped out of bed faster than he thought he ever could or would, pulled together his clothes and jacket before helping Romano do the same, yet gentle and slow, albeit rushed in his mind. Lovino had yet to form any protests or even coherent words for that matter. All he did was sit there and try to breathe through the pain and tightening in his guts. "A-Antonio...!"

"I know, I know, just calm down, don't worry! No te preocupes!" though he was the one in the frenzy. He helped his Lovino to his feet slowly, moving through the house and to the car parked out past the garden. All Lovino could think, as he passed the garden full of the flowers and tall tomato plants he'd planted himself, the vines stretching across the white picket walls that housed the grapes he crushed in the summertime so he had fresh wine every year, that maybe he wouldn't live to see it again. He squeezed the Spaniard's hand, as he walked him to the car, and looked up to him through pain-glazed eyes.

"...Make sure I come b-back, alright?"

Spain had to stop, as much as his brain wanted him to panic and hurry to the hospital, and look down at the pregnant boy in his early stage of labor. The Italian breathed heavily and more tears spilled down his cheeks like waterfalls. "...Please don't l-l-let me die!"

Spain smiled. "As if you can die so easily."

With those less-than-comforting words, Spain ushered his wife and unborn child into his car and drove off to the hospital.

---

"Prussia! Prussia!"

The albino watched as the Italian bounded through the front door to his and Germany's house, face pink with happiness and gelato on his cheeks.

"Oi! What's up, Italy-chan? You got ice cream on your face!"

The Italian blinked up at him, and Prussia grinned as he took his thumb and rubbed it across Italy's messy cheek to rid it of dessert. Germany followed shortly through the door, closing it behind him silently and glancing over to his brother. Prussia only smirked wider as Italy squirmed. "Hold still, sticky face!"

"Veee~!"

"...What have you been doing all day, bruder?"

"Playing awesome video games, duh."

Germany sighed and proceeded to remove his jacket and boots. "Did you clean the house like I asked you to?"

"Nope. But I decorated the nursery so it'll be more awesome!"

Germany froze, whipping his head over to the elder nation in horror. Knowing Prussia, the walls would be lined with pictures of explosions and a mural of his past self fighting tooth and nail. Prussia laughed heartily.

"I'm kidding, West! Don't' make such a crazy face!"

After cleaning Italy's face and ruffling his auburn hair for good measure, he strolled out of the room with a haughty chuckle following him. "But seriously, the house is a mess! Kesesese~!"

Germany collapsed into a nearby chair, tilting his head back and groaning as he felt his headache intensify.

"I don't know if I can handle taking care of two kids at once..." he muttered lowly, but Italy heard and waddled over.

"Silly Germany! I'm only having one baby~!"

Make that three, he said to himself. The Italian cooed and wrapped his arms around the German's thick neck, pressing his prominent stomach to Germany's lesser one.

"Let me clean, Germany!"

"Absolutely not," he snapped, "You need to be resting."

"Veee~" the boy whined, his knees bouncing a bit, "But I want the house to be clean before the baby comes, and Germany is tired and Prussia is busy being awesome, and I have nothing better to do!"

"Resting is something better to do."

"Germannnyyyyy~~~! I'll be resting for a long time after I have the baby~! There's plenty of time for that laaaatteeeerrr~!"

"Italy," Germany began to warn softly, but the Italian only gave him a sugary kiss on the cheek and waddled over to the cleaning closet to grab his deck brush and a bandana to tie over his hair. Germany felt his old memories stirring at the sight of the nostalgic Italian ready to clean. He frowned at the Holy Roman Empire in his brain, and the Italian who wouldn't ever fallow his orders, but only leaned farther back into the chair and moaned in hopes that it would relieve the tension between his eyes.

"Cleaning, cleaniiiiiing~" The Italian sang, sweeping the brush against hard wood floor, straightening the things gone askew on the shelves of the kitchen. He moved from room to room, taking extra special care in the nursery to organize things and make things perfect (as perfect as they could be for the Italian. Germany would probably come in later to tidy better). At least he knew he was good at sweeping! As he ventured into the living room, he spotted Prussia curled into the soft couch, surrounded by junk food and porno magazines, and completely engrossed in the game playing across the screen of the television. Italy waddled over to him, and eyed the mess the man was making.

"Prusssiaa~! Can I clean up for you?"

"Yeah sure, whatever, Italy-chan."

The Italian vee'd as he gathered empty chip bags into his arms and swept around the entertainment system. As he threw the trash into the designated bin, something in him popped. Italy thought it was just his baby kicking him again, telling him he was about to throw a perfectly biodegradable bottle into the trashcan, but when he looked down to see the wet spot quickly soaking through his stretchy maternity pants, he realized something was wrong. Or he had just peed himself. But he hadn't done that in a long, long time!

"...Hey Prussia?" he asked the man still attached to the TV. Prussia grunted in reply, button mashing a super combo. Italy blinked down at the growing patch of dark fabric as it ran down his legs and onto the floor, where he could see that it was tinted crimson. "...Have you ever peed red?"

He heard the sound of a video game character screeching in agony as he was defeated, and a gruff voice telling him that it was "game over", because he turned to see Prussia with his complete and undivided attention on him. His eyes were wide and his mouth was propped open ever so slightly. The video game was instantly a thing of the past.

"...Have you? Cuz I just did, I think, and I don't want to be the only one whose pee is red because then I'd be a weirdo and maybe Germany wouldn't like me anymore."

The Prussian didn't answer, but was now on his feet, the game controller crashing to the floor loudly. He looked at Italy with frightened eyes, like he was about to be eaten, and opened his mouth wide.

"Germany!" he screamed, making the Italian jump in surprise.

"So? Does that mean I'm a weirdo? Cuz I don't want to be a weirdo."

Barely a few seconds and the blonde German was at the door, panting from his quick dash to the room his brother and lover were in. Now they were both staring at him strangely.

"T-Tell me please! I want to know if there's something wrong!"

"I-Italy," the German started, slowly approaching the smaller nation, "...Your water just broke. You're going to have the baby now."

Italy shivered. "B-B-But! No one told me!"

"...The baby just told you it wants to see you!" Prussia added helpfully, nervous smirk playing on his lips since he had trouble with any other emotion besides arrogance. The Italian soon felt the tightening in his insides become painful, and he gasped. Both German's were on him so fast, he had no time to ask any more stupid questions, feeling them both running large calloused hands over his arched belly in an attempt to calm the baby down, but Italy would have none of that.

"Am...Am I going to be okay?" he whispered at the sight of Germany's more-than-serious face near his. The German nodded, but that didn't quell any of his fears. "...Germany, Germany, is this going to hurt?"

The German paused and nodded, rubbing his rebellious stomach still. Prussia had run off to get some towels and call Hungary. Italy frowned, and felt his eyes grow moist. Germany held his hand tightly, though.

"Germany, Germany, is this going to be hard?"

The German nodded again, trailing his gaze anywhere but Italy's eyes.

"Germany, Germany...Will you help me? I don't think I can do it myself~"

Obviously, Germany was not a man of words, especially in dire or serious circumstances. But he managed one last nod, and brought his hand up to the boy's shining cheeks. His hands were warm.

"...That's what I'm here for."

---

- Spanish Translations:

No te preocupes = Don't worry

Mi Dios = My God (Exclamation)

Marido = Husband

Cualquier cosa por ti = anything for you

Siéntate derecho = Sit up

Cuidado = (be) careful

- Italian Translations:

Fratello = Brother

Caspita = My goodness/wow (Exclamation)

Ti amo = I love you

TBC WOAH.


	4. Bebe

Jesus Christ. Alright, I'm sooooooo sorry this took as long as it did. It was pretty much the hardest thing I have ever had to write, and it is twice as long as a regular chapter. 20 PAGES. 20 PAGES OF SHIT.

I'm quite sure this will be the longest chapter I have ever written for anything ever haha.

Again, I'm sorry, but this is the end! Oh, the end. Thanks to all the people who corrected me on my Spanish, as I do not know any whatsoever, and get my words from a forum haha. If you find any specific errors, I will definately fix them on the spot.

Thank you all for reading this, and supporting me along the way with your cheerful comments and reviews!

---

"Uno, due, tre!"

"Quattro, cinque, sei!"

"Sette, otto, nove!"

Germany watched from the backyard porch as his lover danced from behind a tree. Apparently, they were playing some odd variation of marco polo. But if it got his child to learn, he didn't really mind the circumstances. His cobalt eyes trained themselves to the brunette squealing in loud basic Italian as he flailed about the garden, a little blonde creature following with her arms stretched forward and her big eyes shut tight.

"Mama, mama! What comes after ventinove?"

The Italian man hummed out a noisy but contemplative noise. "I don't remember! Germany! Hey Germany! What comes after ventinove?"

Germany would have liked to remind Italy that Italian was his own language, but his daughter waited for his answer with her mouth wide in a smile only angels could bear. She got that from her mama.

"Dreißig."

"Dreißig!" she repeated, "Dreißig, dreißig!"

The Italian whined again. "German! But I don't know German~!"

"Don't lie to her," Germany snapped quietly, removing his jacket and placed it neatly over the back of a nearby chair. The summer air stuck in Germany's lungs when he breathed, and the scent of warmed pine trees soothed his blood.

"Papa! Are you going to play too? You never play with us!"

The guilt a toddler could cause inside the cold heart of a former Nazi general was astounding, yet effective. It wasn't as if Germany didn't want to play with his daughter, but he'd always left that job to Italy, who was much more skilled in the art of being silly than he was. If anything, he'd admit (and only to this little girl of his) that he was afraid of being too serious in times of enjoyment.

"I'll...Try it out," he answered, his boots heavy in the soft green grass. Italy smiled at him in the same fashion his baby girl did, and his heart melted.

"Germany! Do you want to play hide and seek?"

Germany hadn't played hide and seek since...Well he had never played hide and seek. Prussia might have been an "awesome" big brother and father figure, but hell if he could take things seriously. The few times he had tried to get Germany to play outside with him, he'd forgotten all about the game at hand to cuddle and coo over his little brother. And if that weren't a great enough reason, Germany had always favored reading history books beneath his fluffy comforter with a plate of bratwurst at his side over going outside. That fact attributed to his paleness as a child.

But at least Germany knew the rules of the game. He knew the rules to everything.

"...Hide and seek is fine with me," he answered. He hoped he was childish enough to play. Maybe if he imagined it as a life-or-death situation, he could...No, he didn't want to ruin his daughter's playtime. He'd leave it as it was.

"Yey! Okay, I'll count to dieci!"

The little girl with the golden tresses dashed toward a tree and pressed her face against the trunk as if she were kissing it. Soon, she was counting off in muffled Italian, and a small hand seized Germany's. He whipped his head to lock eyes with his Italian lover, with eyes closed in mirth and a finger to his soft pink lips in a playful shush. He tugged Germany along with him, finding a bush closest to the leftmost gate corner. He sat down behind it and slowly pulled the German in with him.

It was a cramped space indeed, but Italy opened his legs wide to accommodate the general coming into them. The brunette leaned against the old splintering boards of the fence, smiling up at Germany through the dense green of the bush and the shadows it cast in the high sun. "This is my favorite hiding place~!"

"Dieci!"

Italy puffed up his cheeks and zipped his mouth shut, leaning back into the soggy grass and dead wood. Germany lay flat in between his legs to keep his head out of sight, but the position had a prickly twig from the shrubbery stabbing him in the thigh. Grunting softly into Italy's ear, he shifted away from it: a knee rubbing into Italy's groin.

"S-sorry, It was uncomfortable."

The Italian didn't say anything: his legs shifted up and around Germany's proud knee, shifting back against it a bit too hungrily. Germany gulped, feeling his dick stir at the sight of his lover's face, dark and red with need. "T-This is the worst timing, Italy..."

"Veee~" he moaned as his captain's knee shifted against him again, stirring the twitching heat between his legs.

"Mama, I can hear you!"

Germany would have stood straight up from his crouched position and marched out of that blasted garden, had it been anyone but his baby girl. He closed his eyes tight and willed his erection down, willed the situation to turn for the best.

"Oiiii~!"

Oh god, was the first phrase to pop into Germany's throbbing head, Not Prussia too.

"Uncle Gilbert!"

"What are you doing, prinzessin?" was called out loudly from the porch. "Where's my bruder?"

"He's hiding in the bushes with mama!"

"Have mercy," Germany whispered to the Almighty God, though he knew his history didn't put him in much favor with Him. Italy laughed.

"Well now! Obviously they're playing their very own game now~!"

Germany could imagine the sweetly confused look on his little angel's face. "Mercy, mercy."

"How about we go play some Grand Theft Auto, prinzessin?"

The child squealed in agreement just as Germany shot his head out of the bush and turned to glare at Prussia with every angry fiber in his body. Needless to say, Germany had a lot of angry fibers.

"Don't you dare let her play that, aniki!"

Prussia grinned.

"Well while you're having your playtime with Italy-chan, I'll be having a much more appropriate playtime with the prinzessin!"

"How in God's name is that more appropriate?"

"Well since she's my prinzessin, I'm not going to subject her to fuc-"

"Don't you say another word!" the German barked, his erection instantly lost at the very gruesome and horrifying thought. Could Prussia be any more socially retarded? Italy whined in disappointment.

"I wanted playtime!"

Prussia laughed out loud and bent down to slide big strong hands under his niece's little arms, hefting her into the air with a playful roar. "Prinzessin! You're up so high! Fliegen!"

Germany slowly stood from the bush, taking his lover by the hand and helping him up as well, patting the dirt off his clothes as he giggled. He watched his brother swing his daughter about with as much care as the act could grant, bellowing out German words that were quickly and perfectly echoed by the cherub, her voice singing out in Germany's very own language. He remembered times when he had been in the place of that little girl, just a tiny creature in the powerful yet gentle arms of his big brother. He felt pride and nostalgia swell in his chest.

"She speaks German better than Italian."

He snapped his gaze back to his short Italian lover hovering by his side, watching the two by the porch with eyes that Germany could not place. "I wouldn't say that. She's learning them both at the same pace."

Italy didn't say anything, and kept watching.

Germany took note.

---

"Look at these tiny mano!"

The boy said nothing, but let his father take him by the hands and twist them up and down in the air. He didn't seem to care, but his father burst with love and adoration. "Ay, they'll be grande, one day! Eat your tomatoes and you'll grow up strong like papa!"

Spain hoisted the silent child up and bounced him on his hip, carrying him into the kitchen. Lovino was leaning over the stove cooking, his hair back in a bandanna and a ladle in hand. "Don't listen to him, Bene," he muttered, tending to his recipes without sparing them a glance, "He's a pussy."

"Mi dios! Querido, don't say such bad things to mi hijo!"

"He deserves to know the truth," he said, glaring at Spain over his shoulder after a moment, "Be it with kind words or not."

The child didn't throw in his opinion. He stared at his mother with arms outstretched.

"Abbra," it called quietly, "abbra."

"Abbraccio," his mother corrected, setting down his spoon and twisting the burner switch with a click. He wiped his floury hands on his apron and took but two steps to take his baby into his arms. Spain smiled down at his wife and child.

"See? He never speaks Spanish! And you thought he wouldn't like you."

Romano jutted out his lower lip at the taller country, bouncing his son in his arms. He turned away from his guardian and proceeded to softly coo at the child, whispering the language of love and pressing his cheek to the little head of chocolate hair. Spain watched with a heart full of passion as his lover whisked his son about the warm pueblo kitchen on trained toes, his caramel curl bouncing with every murmur of a step. Russet eyes were hidden behind pale eyelids, but wiry eyelashes tickled the little head pressed to them, as soft peachy lips stirred forth foreign words that were never so foreign before, because they were not his words, words for him; they were for Benedetto.

"I'm jealous," the Spaniard admitted quietly; smile twisting higher onto his cheeks. "I am but a padre."

"Good," the Italian bit out, amidst his serenade. Benedetto had been nearly put to sleep, his eyes half-cast, and his face as dreamy as always. "Stay that way."

"Oh, cariño."

Spain stepped toward Lovino and was soon looming over him, hand out for him to take. The Italian looked down at it warily before looking back into emerald eyes. "Don't give me that look, tonto. Just enjoy my attention, for once."

Romano huffed and shifted his arms to where Benedetto remained quietly drifting off against his shoulder, hesitantly taking the hand offered. Spain laughed and kissed the hand, cool emerald eyes peering over the knuckles to his bride's blushing face.

"Mama."

Little chocolate eyes were suddenly very awake and staring intently at his mother's neck. Benedetto softly called out for his mama once more, even though he was holding him so tight and warm.

"What is it, piccino?"

He reached for his mother's hand in his father's, and clenched and unclenched his own little hands in want. Lovino silently took it back from Spain and placed it gently in the tiny palms of his son's.

Little peachy lips kissed right over Spain's kiss, making the hearts of his parents swell and burst with love. Spain was nearly brought to tears.

"Hijo! Oh, hijo-"

"-So mine covers it up."

There was a moment of silence, a moment that could have gone on forever, had it not been for the fit of mirth Lovino expelled from his lungs, face red and tears in his eyes as he kept laughing and laughing. Spain's face remained the same for quite some time.

"Goddamn it," Lovino sighed in amusement, wiping his eyes with his worshipped hand. "This kid is just plain rude!"

And a million thoughts raced through Spain's head as if they were the stocks on Wall Street. His hijo is so very nonchalant. He wondered where he could have gotten it from. And soon, he realized that maybe he had been right, those many years ago, when he had kept reassuring his very pregnant lover that that baby would love him more than he ever could, and he could never compare. While that might have been true, not only was he more loved, but also a mere baby was replacing him? Those many years ago, when he had reassured his Lovino that the baby only kicked Spain because he didn't like him, he had definitely been right.

"Hijo...Papa's kiss is still there," he informed the boy slowly, almost as if he were saying it just to calm himself down. The boy blinked indifferently.

"No it isn't. I covered it up, so yours isn't there anymore. Mama likes mine better anyway."

Spain could feel his heart break, and Lovino's muted chuckling didn't help him forget it. Spain knew he was being childish, when he pouted uncharacteristically, turned daring eyes to his little lover and asked, "Is that true? Do you like his kiss better?"

Lovino choked on his last laugh, his rare smile still in place. He felt the gaze of both his lover and his child peering at him desperately for the answer, as if their very lives depended on his favor. He could see the frustration in Spain's eyes, and had it been any other situation, he would have loved to put him down as usual. But he could feel the intensity of it, feel that if he were to say the wrong thing, Spain would turn heel and walk away from him. For good, he doubted, but it was still the very thought that made Romano's stomach churn. He'd fought so hard, at least in his mind, to keep Spain. And if one little childish feud with his own son was going to tear that down, he just couldn't.

But then there were the sweet innocent eyes of his Bene, his bebe! How he had been so afraid, when he had held his precious baby in his arms for the first time, that this little thing that had come from his body, from his love, wouldn't love him back. He had prayed from dawn 'til dusk, in his painfully quiet days at the hospital, that he would have someone who loved him as deeply as a child loves a mother. And when those wide eyes turned to him for the first time, when those chubby little fingers twitched toward him for the warmth of a mother's never-ending love, he cried. He cried for days. And despite the stitches in his belly and the drugs in his blood, he had curled up with that tiny creature and loved upon him. His smile and his joyful tears would not end for several more days.

So what was he to say, to those two important people in his life? There was no right answer, and it wasn't as if he actually had a preference: it was just a kiss. But one stupid answer could break the heart of his husband, or dash the dreams of his child.

"Well," he started, lifting his kissed hand and examining it with soft brown eyes, "Benedetto's kiss is very nice."

Without looking up at Spain, he could feel the grief radiating off him in tidal waves. The silence was deafening, and after a moment, Romano could hear the shifting of his feet, as he got ready to leave. "...But papa can kiss this hand."

He moved Benedetto to his other arm and offered Spain the hand that was void of kisses. The Spaniard bit his lip, and Lovino smiled gently as he saw his bright green eyes become moist. But he took that hand and brought it to his tanned lips, kissing and kissing. He placed them down each finger, along the thumb, across the palm, along the knuckles, the wrist. Lovino heard Benedetto mutter a tiny "gross", and felt Spain's long warm fingers push back his sleeves, watched him travel his kisses up his wrist, along his vein, up to his elbow, higher and higher.

There was only so much good Lovino could do in one day.

"Alright, alright, you perverted freak, that's enough! Goddamn!" he yanked his arm back, red dusting his cheeks as he looked aside.

Spain smiled, and was completely satisfied.

---

"Why must I wear my hair down?"

"...Your mother likes it that way."

Alize doubted that was the entire reason, but didn't question her papa. She'd simply question her mother instead. Her little shoeless feet padded down the halls, searching with big blue eyes. She didn't like the way her hair got in the way when she played football with papa, or how it got all over her paper when she drew.

"Mama," she asked, when she found a lump in her parent's bed, a long brown curl twitching with every hushed breathe, "mama, wake up."

The Italian shifted under the comforter until he slowly uncovered his head and looked to his daughter with tired eyes. "...Hnnn...What is it, Alize~?"

"Mama, can I wear my hair back? I want to paint."

Italy said nothing for a long time. But he eventually smiled and said, "I want to see you with pink and blue hair."

"Papa won't like that," she pouted, "so please give me a band."

"I have none~."

"Then a string."

"I have none~."

"Mama!" she cried, getting frustrated. Her face reminded Italy of how Germany would get angry, the way his cheeks turned pink and his eyebrows furrowed. He let out a quiet "Veee~"

"I'm going to go find one myself then!"

Before Italy could tell her no, she had dashed off. Panic set into Italy like it never had before, thinking to himself just what would happen if he saw her daughter in that state, how she would get used to it, how he'd be reminded every day. He threw the covers aside and clumsily jumped into a pair of pants he had discarded previously, running right after her.

"Alize! Alize, where are you?" he called, darting right past a rather confused Germany, "Where are you?"

He noticed down the hallway that the door to his daughter's room was wide open. He took off at a short sprint and grasped tightly to the doorframe. "Alize!"

She had taken a red ribbon from the bow around one of her porcelain doll's dresses and brought all her hair to rest at the back of her little head, tying an uneven knot tightly to hold it in place. She began to turn back to her mother defiantly, and Italy could feel his heart tighten. Don't look, don't look, he demanded of himself, don't remember.

But he looked, and he remembered. He looked right into those bright blue eyes, and could nearly see the North Sea off the coast of Nordendi, as he'd done centuries ago. He could smell the salt, feel the cold water at his ankles and the rocky mud between his toes, and remember the day he went to the beach. They had held hands, and swam even though it was too cold and they knew they'd be sick the next day, and kissed when the sun fell over the rocks.

_I'll be waiting!_

And he could remember primp blonde hair hidden under a tall black bicorn, and chubby childish cheeks that were always pink when he saw them.

"Italy, what's wrong?" Germany had followed him to their daughter, and looked them over. He frowned, knowing exactly what was wrong: His daughter looked just like her ancestor.

But Italy couldn't tell him what was wrong. He just couldn't. Not when he started crying, not when he dropped to his knees and sobbed into the heels of his palms.

He had broken a promise.

"Mama! Mama, I'm sorry! Don't cry! See, look! I took it out! See? My hair's down! Mama! Mama, I'll never do it again, please stop crying!" his daughter cried desperately, her own face wet with tears as she clambered onto her mother's lap. Germany refrained from sighing aloud; knowing Italy would think he was frustrated with him. He understood, but how could he persuade the Italian? It wasn't Germany who had broken a lover's promise.

"Come here, Feliciano," he whispered, kneeling down and slowly scooping the broken Italian into his arms, letting his daughter drop to her knees and cry. He shushed her with a soft kiss to her forehead, and told her to go see her uncle. She shakily complied, carrying herself on trembling little legs to Gilbert's room further into the house.

They sat there, in the pink room of their daughter's surrounded by dolls, and Germany let Italy cry long into the day, into the evening, when the pink room turned black. He rested his head on his lover's and remained silent, as he was not the best at comforting.

"Don't...D-Don't you hate me? I...You, y-you were...se-second."

Germany frowned. He knew he wasn't his first choice, of course not. They were countries; firsts seldom meant anything. When they had centuries to live, most forgot who they used to be. But he knew the Holy Roman Empire was who he had been. He'd had his memories stripped from him, his body allowed to grow, and soon he was a successful country with his own language and a long history he was not permitted to recall. But he could always, even if scarcely, remember the Italian, as the beating of his heart increased with a jump every time his lost blue eyes fell on that clumsy little thing. He had never mentioned anything to Italy, in the hopes that he would forget, and he would, and was, the new Holy Roman Empire of his affection. He had replaced him.

"...That's alright. You're still my first, and that's all that matters to me."

And that was true.

Germany stared into black, could see the twinkling of the Milky Way through the lofty window overtaking a wall in the bedroom, and heard the shifting of fabric, the turning of the small country in his lap, and the feeling of little lanky arms curling around his thick neck in a sad embrace, hot breath sweeping over his ear.

Italy cries, and Germany says nothing.

But he knows the times are changing.

---

Babysitters had always been out of the question. If you would even mention it to Germany, he would give you a glare that sent just enough fright through you to relieve your bladder. Italy wasn't so strong-minded.

"...She's a good little girl, Germany, and we can't take care of her all the time~! We have world meetings to go to!"

Germany wouldn't voice the reason why he always snubbed the idea of getting a baby sitter. Once, he'd let Spain and Romano watch her with the hundred pounds of persuasion his Italian lover would push onto his brother. Though, he'd left the Spaniard a book full of phone numbers and rules and schedules, colorfully flagged with sticky notes, Alize had told him not to worry and go "have fun with mama!" but how could he have relaxed and enjoyed his time with Italy if he had been constantly worrying about his angel?

No, Germany would never utter a word that directly expressed his over the top protectiveness.

"Ni-chan usually stays home when we go to meetings, but America said we all had to go to this one~! It's either a babysitter, or..."

At that moment, it was like a life or death situation. On one hand, he could have some inexperienced human taking care of his beautiful little girl, or,

"...We can't possible take her with us. They won't allow it. I won't allow it," he emphasized himself deeply. Italy cooed, his curl bouncing.

"Nee, but it's America. He loves kids. He's got like, 50~!"

Germany could feel his blood boiling and rising to his cheeks, frustrated with the state of affairs. Oh how much he hated babysitters, yet he was never so keen on breaking his own rules of conduct either. He rubbed at his forehead in habit, sighing heavily.

"Ludwig~"

Germany felt little pale hands splay long fingers against his uniformed chest, the Italian leaning over playfully and looking at him with big chocolate eyes that he could seldom ever turn away from. "How about," the Italian breathed softly, like words made of whispers, "we just try this out?"

Seduction was a talent Germany knew all too well with the Italian. He was the country of lovers, after all. So when his eyes sparkled with lust and his smile looked as soft as down, he had to remain firm. Firm! But those sweet little legs stepped that much closer, pressing thigh to thigh, tip-toeing until those sugary lips neared his and breathed out a warm breeze and oh God, just-!

"...U-Um, yes, I ah..." Germany muttered, face hot and hands itching to reach up and grab anything the Italian had to offer, "...M...Maybe just this...Once."

"Whoooo~!"

The Italian bounced off quickly, as to get his daughter ready for the trip to America's house, leaving the German standing on shaky legs and pulsing with flustered blood.

"...Gott."

---

Benedetto cries, and one immediately becomes worried for the well being of the entire planet. Because when he cries, if he ever cries, it is only a sign of the apocalypse.

At least that's what Spain believes. Romano tells him to stop being so dumb.

But the time comes, eventually, when Romano has to leave with Spain for the meeting. And Benedetto doesn't approve of the idea in the least.

"Bene, Papa's boss is going to take care of you for a couple hours, okay? He's even going to let you have ice cream if you're a good boy," the mother informs him softly. But the boy is stubborn. He probably got it from his potato-loving uncle.

"No. No, mama."

Romano sighed to himself, crouched down to have his baby at eye level. Those chocolate eyes that were so reflective of his own were determined in the most unseen way. He knew what must have been going through the toddler's head.

"Piccino, I have to go do important business with papa. I'll come home as fast I can."

"No, mama." He nearly commanded. Lovino frowned.

"You can't tell me what to do, Bene! I'm your mama!"

"No." he repeated with a monotone that was setting off the temper Romano had long forgotten after the birth of this child. With the scar across his belly and a heart filled to the brim with maternal affection, he had promised himself that he would never get angry with his son. But he was not a strong-hearted man, after all.

"Fine," he barked, shooting up from his squat and frowning down at his obstinate son, "Say what you want, but I'm going to the meeting and you're going to stay here, goddamnit! And you can't stop me!"

He turned away from the immovable boy and started to stomp down the hall, but was halted by a foreign noise he'd never heard before. It sounded something akin to hiccups, and yet it whined like a soft clipped siren.

"What is that?" he whispered to himself, looking about despite his annoying frustration.

It got louder and louder, until he could tell that they really had been hiccups, watery loud hiccups, and he turned back to the source.

Benedetto had his mouth hung agape as tears sprung out of his eyes in big fat drops, his hands fisting against his little red cheeks to try and hide them, Romano supposed. A grating sob tore itself from the boy, but was quickly interrupted by a sharp inhale of breath and a spasm of his windpipe.

Romano had never seen Benedetto cry.

What do I do, he panicked, his own hands making themselves to his face. Benedetto had always been such a quiet mannered boy, though he had his indifference and carelessness to replace his flat-out rebellious side. Even when he was a baby, he was as quiet as a mouse, and when he needed anything, he'd simply move about until his mother got the gist of it, like a type of sign language. At some point, Lovino had been worried about his lack of speech, but when the first word out of his mouth was "mama", he knew he'd be alright.

"Piccino...P-Piccino, don't cry, bebe," he whispered, rushing back and looming over his child like a shroud of comfort. It didn't seem to work, as his little red face dripped with salty tears and his tiny body trembled in utter despair. Romano worked his hands over. "Pl...Please don't cry, piccino, mama's right here."

Romano could see him try to say something, but his lungs were so worked up from exertion, all he could do was cough and sob louder. Finally, Romano crouched down again and slipped his hands under his son's arm, lifting him into the air and pressing him dearly to his chest. "Shhh, now," he murmured against the little ear at his mouth, "Shhh."

"Lovino, what's that sound?"

Spain had heard, as he was dressing for the meeting, and came to investigate. When he happened upon them, all Romano could do was cry too.

"...I d-don't know what to d-do!" he bawled, tears of his own pooling in his eyes and gliding down his cheeks. He bounced the sobbing boy in his arms as he too, let out a soft whine and a sniffle. "H-He...I was j-just so upset!"

Spain didn't care how it started. But he saw the agonized face of his son, and in turn his mother, and knew he could be the only one who could save the world.

"Mi cariño..." he whispered as he strode quickly to his little lover and embraced him with his son pressed between them. "Why won't you be nice for mama, chiquitito?"

"M..." the boy choked, "M-Mama's not...Mama's alw-w-ways with me!"

"We'll only be gone a little while!" he reassured just as Lovino had earlier, and the boy trembled and squirmed about, the first display of aggression he'd ever shown them.

"No! No, no!"

Romano had given up trying to persuade the poor thing. Benedetto wasn't a troublesome child, after all, so this was unexpected and terrifying. "M...Maybe...He should come along?"

Spain looked to his lover, fidgety from the first time experience of a child's tantrum. Benedetto cried into Lovino's shoulder, wetting it with big fresh tears and snot and drool. Antonio was surprised the boy could even breathe, with how loud he was.

"...If he stops crying, he can come along."

And as if on cue, he stops.

A foreign type of rage spilled into Spain's veins as he stared into the wet yet calm face of his son, who just stared right back, if less heatedly.

His son had planned this.

Spain would never know how he knew how to go about using crocodile tears, or how to strategize, or how to be so convincing in his acting. All Spain knew was that his son was clever, albeit bratty. And he had to agree, begrudgingly, as he looked down to the dastardly eyes of his child.

"...Si. Let's go together, then."

---

Of course America had been okay with letting the kids come. He'd had 50 of them, after all. And after Hawaii grew up and left him, the house had been lonely without the squealing and stomping of tiny feet on worn lacquered floor.

"Hey there, little guy! How's it going?"

Benedetto squeezed his mother's hand and stared blankly at the blonde American. Realizing that he wasn't going to be graced with an answer, America gave up with a weary smile.

"Lo siento, America...He's being bad today," Spain warningly glanced down at the boy in question, who ignored him completely. America waved about enthusiastically.

"No worries, mi amigo!" he somehow butchered, making Spain wince a little, "My Carolinas were the same way! Though I was so glad when they grew out of it."

Spain wondered if Benedetto would too. But by the looks of it, he had little to hope for.

"Bene, Bene," Romano whispered, crouching to the ground beside his son, "See that girl over there? Remember her?"

He pointed out farther into the room, where a fair little girl bounced on her heels beside a tall proud military man and a man who looked just like his mother. Instead of basing his attention on his cousin, he refused to look away from the twin.

"...He looks like you, mama."

Lovino blinked. Even though Benedetto had seen Italy many times in his life, he should have at the least remembered something so important as an identical twin. Maybe he had been too little to realize that he wasn't just dizzy and seeing double, but that there really were double.

"...That's your uncle Feliciano," he answered slowly, hoping this time it would catch, "You've met him many times before."

Benedetto was silent, staring intently at the other Italy as he danced about with the little girl just a few inches taller than his knees. Her fluffy ocean dress bobbed up and down, and her pale blonde hair curled about in tresses.

"That's...Alize."

"You used to always play together."

Though Romano wasn't sure when that stopped. His brother had gotten so busy with his daughter, all of a sudden, and being a good housewife to that damn potato. At some point, Italy stopped visiting, and only reserved himself to phone calls, and seldom that. Not that Lovino minded all that much...Really.

"Go on, go play with her."

Benedetto slowly released his mother's hand, trotting over to his cousin, who immediately steered her attention to him, giving him a loud German greeting and a sweet-as-candy embrace. She was taller than him, probably from her father's blood, and made him feel even smaller in her arms. He didn't seem to be bothered by it all too much, and looked back to his mother in a near question. But Romano only smiled and stood back up to return his attention to Spain and America.

Benedetto looked up to his uncle with the same caramel hair and bouncing curl as his mom, and stared. Italy became nervous under the scrutiny, but remained motherly.

"Benedetto!" he cooed as he hoisted the boy into the air and spun him around, "Vee~ Look how big you are now!"

"...You're not like mama."

Italy vee'd again. "I'm not your mama~! Lovino is much stronger than I am, and fiercer, and faster, and smarter, and-"

Benedetto wiggled in Italy's arms, signaling for him to let him down, and Italy did quickly. The Italian could only wonder what is nephew would grow into, with his mother's fury buried behind blank brown eyes.

"Scary," he whispered to himself as the boy scurried back to his mother, while Italy turned his attention back to the German and cooed and loved upon him.

"Alright everyone, let's get this meeting over with!"

The American herded the countries to the large table overtaking the entire room, as he stood from his own place on the podium. But as much as he wanted the attention on himself, the eyes of every nation were trained to the two children sitting side by side on their mothers' laps. He even had to admit to himself, that he couldn't help but look as well. It had been so long since he'd seen the children of countries, besides his own. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, England becoming rather huffy. America could only think of how jealous he must have been, seeing those kids after all his own had grown up. He and America hadn't had a kid since Rhode Island, after all, and he must have been itching to be a father again.

_As if I'd let him, with all that shit he pulled with his first batch of kids_, America grumbled to himself, _over-protective to the absolute extreme_. _What sort of freedom was that?_

"If you'd be so kind!" he barked, stealing the attention from the children back to him, "As cute as you two are, we have a meeting that needs to be had, ya know?"

Benedetto said nothing, but Alize put a hand to her face to hide the red spreading across her cheeks at being called "cute" by the brash American. America could see the anger in Germany's eyes, but he remained smug and hero-like.

"Okay, you guys! So on the issue of pollution, I think we should get Japan to recruit his power rangers and have them create a giant whirlwind using the megazord that sucks up all the bad stuff, and then shoot it into space. Everyone agree?"

"I agree, America-sa-"

"Quiet, Japan! First of all, just because America likes your tv shows doesn't mean he's right aru! And second, have your own opinion aru!"

And so the tidal wave of voices washed over the table faster than one could properly protest, until one could barely even tell if they were voices at all, but rather one large roar of sound.

"It's noisy," Benedetto tried to say as loud as he could over the commotion. Lovino bounced him on his knees and stroked his dark curled hair.

"It could be worse."

Alize leaned over the table excitedly, trying to catch a noise that could have sounded like a word, to try and understand the loud argument. She could barely even make out the syllables, and had to read lips. That wasn't working too well either, so she gave up and leaned back into Feliciano, whom vee'd and let his eyes droop closed. Usually, he'd be stirring up a storm of his own, but with his daughter there to keep him in check, he could only sit still and watch.

"Achtung!"

And everything stopped. Italy's heart beat a little faster.

"Everyone needs to quiet themselves right now, and let there be only one representative speaking at a time! As for now, I believe America should continue with his proposed theory, and if there are any protests or agreements, they should be done quickly and formally!" The German had stood from his seat beside his lover and clasped his hands behind his back, spine straight as a pole and eyes as daring as any commander.

Alize felt her mother swoon against her, the soft vee~ that escaped him barely even heard.

"Do you like the way papa shouts, mama?" she whispered into his ear. Italy shivered, and did not answer.

"...T-Thank you, Germany. Anyway, as I was saying...I am a super great hero and all, I know, but I think the red ranger is still a really good candidate too, and red's also one of my favorite colors, along with white and blue..."

And so the debate continued, yet suddenly more subdued, with the angry German still standing tall and bold, watching them intently. One could even deem it civilized.

"Papa! Let me try!"

Germany watched, beyond the ability to stop the child, as Alize ripped herself from Italy's rather compliant arms and clambered onto the table. She brushed her billowy blue dress down so she was perfect and wrinkle-free, before marching all across the large table. Her little Mary Jane clad feet clicked and clacked on the polished wood as she stepped in military rhythm in a beeline to America, who was trying his hardest not to grin in the face of the child. She was trying to be serious, he supposed, but she instead looked rather pink and pouty.

"Goodness," he cried out as she stomped to a halt in front of his podium, her little blonde head just barely seen over it. "What is the matter, general?"

"I'm here to restore order!"

"Well now," he whispered, leaning over the podium to say it softly into her ear, "That's a hard thing to do! Think you're up for the challenge?"

"Yes, sir!"

Her papa had taught her that she always needed to ask permission before she did anything. She swung around and faced the people of the table that had gone silent as soon as she stood upon it.

"...Well how am I supposed to tell you all to be quiet when you already are?" she cried out, her voice quivering in disappointment. Germany was already on his way, with fast embarrassed steps, to snatch his daughter up and scold her, when China raised his voice.

"I object aru!" he didn't say what he was objecting, but there was a soft smile on his face, the German noted, that could have been called motherly.

"I object too!" France chimed in, handing a rose to Alize and telling her about how proud he is of his very own "Alize Cornet".

"Object, yes?" the large Russian called out, with the look on his face making his Baltic nations raise their objections too, albeit shaky and quiet.

Alize took a happy breath, seeing everyone piping up on her behalf. Then she stomped her foot on the polished wood and everyone closed their mouths.

"Achtung! Everyone, please remain attentive and...Papa, what's that word you always use?"

"Courteous."

"Courteous!"

With that, Ludwig seized the little girl off the table and placed her at his hip chidingly. "Excuse her, she has yet to learn her manners."

"Hey!" she began to wiggle in protest.

"Germany, I don't know how I can continue this meeting if she keeps doing irresistible cute stuff."

The German frowned. Meetings were of dire importance: always. He bowed his head lightly before carrying his red-faced daughter back to her place with her mother.

"Anyway, without anymore adorable interruptions, I'd like to give the floor to good ol' Iggy!"

"I swear to God, Alfred, if you don't stop calling me that..."

So the meeting continued, as it would have any day, with the constant arguing and the lack of solutions to the policy agenda. Morning was slowly turning to the afternoon, and both Alize and Italy had taken to dozing in each other's arms silently. Germany watched over them just as quietly, warning the board with his stern eyes of the punishment for any subtle change in volume. Hours passed unnoticed, and each nation had their say in something (except Sealand, because as much as he wanted to run up there and say his part and share his plan of world domination, Sweden kept him in his chair).

"My boss told me that I should let everyone have a moment to speak, because that's fair and junk, so that's why I invited everyone today. Lovino, you've got the floor, dude."

Romano jerked to attention, the fingers toying lovingly with his son's hair twitching to a stop. It wasn't like he planned on saying anything, since he hadn't stood at that podium in at least 5 years. And his problems were so minor compared to everyone else's, especially since he was just half a country anyway.

But he stood, carefully depositing his drowsy son into its father's arms, and walked up to the tall wooden stand to address his surprisingly quiet audience. He took it that everyone in the room had an affinity towards children. Or it could have just been the potato bastard's intimidating looks.

"...There's not a lot of things I need to-"

"Mama!"

Everyone looked over to the little boy squirming heatedly in his father's distressed arms, reaching out to his mother from all the way across the table. "Mama!"

"...Benedetto," he sighed. As much as he absolutely adored his baby, he realized he had to wean him off his presence soon. "Please stay with papa. I'm trying to talk."

"Mamaaaa," he whined angrily, pushing Spain's embrace away. Spain soon gave up, realizing he could not win this battle, and let the boy slide to the floor. He soon got on his feet and waddled quickly to Romano, clutching at his pants as if he were to die. The Italian had no choice but to pick up his son and cradle him to his chest. He continued.

"...Like I was saying, I don't have that many problems, right now. Despite this, I appreciate the opportunity to speak to you all."

"You are too soft all of a sudden, Lovino," France commented among the silence. "Is this what motherhood does to a person?"

Romano's cheeks turned bright and he opened his mouth wide to curse, but the child in his arms whined at the attention addressed to them, or to him in particular, and he couldn't overlook it in favor of barking up the French nation's tree.

"...I'll get you later, surrender monkey."

Watching the Frenchman mouth the words "surrender monkey" gave Lovino a boost of cockiness, rocking his son in his lithe arms as he walked back to his place beside the Spaniard trying and failing to conceal his laughter.

"Well, looks like that's that! Anymore objections for sweet Alize to crush?"

No one made a sound, except for the hissing of a whine from the flustered girl in question, and America smiled.

"Then we're done! Go on, get outta my house!"

The nations didn't need to be told twice. They pooled together with allies and began to chat loudly as they made their way out of the conference room, but took time to visit the Italian twins and their children. The nations praised them and babied them and gave them cultural trinkets and candies, until they were so doted upon, they were becoming exhausted. By the end of it all, the mothers had a bag of toys and treats on each arm.

"It's too much!" Italy cried to Germany, struggling with his hold on Alize and her new gifts. Germany took his daughter into her arms delicately and watched Italy sigh loudly and fix himself from his rut. "Thanks, Germany~!"

"...Let's just go before they come back," he murmured, as Alize nodded off against his neck. Italy took his hand in his and took to the door.

"Are you coming, ni-chan?"

Lovino was struggling too, but refused to voice his protests like his brother did. Feliciano was a way bigger sissy than he was, after all. He jostled the boy in his arms as he situated the bags at his elbows.

"Mi querido, let me help..."

"N-No, I'm gonna do it, goddamn it. I can do it."

Spain smiled, but stopped the Italian before he could even take a step out of the room and took from him the bags. Benedetto stayed nestled to Romano's shoulder, little hands fisting in soft cotton clothes. Spain leaned down to brush his lips to his lover's flushed cheek in a tease.

"...Don't push yourself, cariño."

Lovino didn't say anything, and merely pouted. He walked quickly to his twin brother, who cooed and caressed his nephew softly, with Spain on his heels, eager to get back to his manor and take a much-needed siesta with his little Lovino.

All the way out to the streets of D.C., fingers laced with fingers, and both couples were joined by the little Italians in between.

"...When am I allowed to be pregnant again, ni-chan?"

"What?"

"Since I can't be pregnant without you being pregnant too, when will you let me have another?"

The German was trying his hardest to ignore the short bouncy Italian holding his hand, knowing just how angry the brother would be if he acknowledged the thought. Spain barely even had time to laugh, before Romano gave him a look that could kill.

"Never," he answered angrily, continuing along with his family.

But anyone could tell that was wrong.

---

-German translations:

Fliegen = Fly

Achtung = Attention!

-Spanish translations:

Mano = hand

Tonto = Silly (person)

Lo siento = I'm sorry

-Italian translations:

Abbraccio = Hug

Piccino = pet name; "Little one"

For all those wondering about the names, they're just names. Benedetto is a common Italian name, meaning "blessed" or literally, "good little thing" which, obviously, is ironic. Alize is not so common, but is a differentiation of the name Alice, used in non-English speaking European countries such as France and Germany. Also, I emphasized her dress and hair because I wanted her to seem like Alice from Alice in Wonderland. Did it work? haha.

Thank you all for reading, and I hope you liked reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it (Which was an insane amount haha).

Also, for anyone wondering yet, next on my list is a daddy!England fic, with lots of USxUK, if anyone's interested. I'm just starting to get into the Hetalia fandom, so don't bring down the belt haha! I hope for it to be a oneshot: a very, very, VERY, long oneshot. None the less, it's coming up.

Thank you thank you thank you~!


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